


The Life of Hana Song

by FillerText



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Brotherly Love, Child Abuse, Depression, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Overwatch - Freeform, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 107,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FillerText/pseuds/FillerText
Summary: Hana Song has a difficult life. Juggling a nonexistent father figure, an alcoholic mother, gang members, gaming, financial insecurities- a cyborg ninja, a disillusioned cowboy, the reformation of a long-disbanded group called Overwatch?Chaos ensues.The story of one girl's encounter with cowboys, strange half-Omnic men, terrorist groups, and a journey that will change her forever.(Technically timeline-and-canon-compliant.)





	1. lonely gamer

_**CHAPTERS 1-6 are essentially PROLOGUE, bulk of the content in the summary starts in CHAPTER 7.**  
Otherwise, please go on ahead. Comments are always appreciated :)_

_WARNING: Gets pretty dark rather quickly. TW: Alcohol, swearing, abuse, slight mature themes later on._

_This fanfic centers mainly on DVA (Hana Song)'s personal life before and during her entering of Overwatch, which is hardly touched on by her official lore. It'll cover the giant Omnic that rose from the sea and attacked South Korea as well._  
I wanted to create some semblance of a tragic backstory, to give her rather two-dimensional "I'm a gamer!" character some depth. This means that there'll be lots of drama and angst in this story. Some other characters from Overwatch will be an integral part of her story as well. I'll try to update every week.  
Enjoy the story.

 

* * *

 

 

"How many wins was that? I've lost count!" said Hana with a childish giggle. She swiveled around on her rotating chair to peer at her Twitch feed, hosted on a separate monitor so as not to obstruct the girl's view of her game. The chat was awash with praise for the young gamer's skills. Drinking in the sight of her hard-earned fanbase, Hana grabbed a can of soda, letting the metal crinkle under the force of her grip. She took a long, refreshing sip of the drink, relishing in the taste of the cold, bubbly liquid. As far as Hana Song- alias DVA- was concerned, she had _earned_ it.

 _With this money, I could pay for_ everything. _Maybe even Dad's debts._ Happiness bubbled inside of her- or perhaps that was just the soda; Hana couldn't care less. In her excitement-induced euphoria, Hana grabbed onto her headset, and yelled into the mic, to her millions of followers-

"If I lose a game today… no, if I _ever_ lose a match, I'll delete my account!"

She eyed her feed with satisfaction as it exploded with messages. The vast majority of the comments were things like _DVA WILL NEVER DIE, DVA #1,_ and _I FUCKING LOVE YOU,_ reaffirming Hana's confidence in her own abilities _…_ though a small minority of them _did_ show a touch of concern. "Oh, I'll fucking do it," she said, smacking her lips, brushing off the nonbelievers with ease. Hana's confidence was at an all-time high. It took every fiber of her body not to tell her viewers what had happened to her just three days ago.

 _Overwatch is reforming. And they want_ me _to join._

Every time the gamer heard tell of the mysterious organization's name, she felt her heart flutter. No one knew that she was going to join Overwatch's ranks- hell, no one even knew that Overwatch was _back._ The group that had been so immortalized by the Omnic Crisis was, after all… sort of illegal.

But Hana Song had spent too much of her childhood idolizing the heroes of Overwatch to care. After her father had left them, and her mother had dissolved into an alcoholic, little Hana would have nothing better to do than to collect various bits of Overwatch paraphernalia, read about the members in books, follow them on the news, become a devoted follower to their cause-

"Honeeeeey?"

Hana cursed and slammed the MUTE button with her palm, though it was too late; her Twitch chat exploded once again into a manic spiral of _who's that, her mom?, her BF, POGCHAMP._

After quickly assessing the damage dealt with a critical eye, Hana turned to face her mother, who had apparently just arrived at the apartment. She watched, seething silently, as the woman pulled off her stiletto heels, the thin veneer of bright red fabric covering her legs hitching up slightly with the motion.

"You're back early," said Hana, ice built into her voice. It was not a question.

Hana's mother, Nara Song, faltered. Hana couldn't tell whether it was out of remorse or because she was too drunk to function properly- the stink of _soju,_ a Korean alcoholic drink, hung heavy in the air.

"Aw, my own daughter is not pleased to see me?" Ms. Song managed. Hana watched silently as her mother burst into tears. The woman's eyeliner left ugly black streaks down her face, collecting at the bottom of her chin.

The woman continued in her reedy, high-pitched voice, which thankfully Hana had only partly inherited. "You don't understand, it's not my fault, it's your _father,_ and I still have to deal with- with _you."_ Hana noticed the wedding ring still sparkling on the woman's ring finger, and was glad when the woman stumbled away to the only other room in the cramped apartment- her bedroom. Otherwise, Hana would've slapped her.

Dully, Hana listened to the quiet hysterics echoing from next door. There was no doubt in her mind that the woman had been flirting with men at various nightclubs, soliciting drinks out of them that she otherwise would never have been able to afford. It was a situation straight out of those stupid Korean dramas that she had always binged through with her dad when she was little… the ones that even her eight-year-old-self had enough sense to laugh at, wondering, _how could anything so ridiculous happen?_

Suddenly, she didn't feel like streaming anymore.

She resignedly hit UNMUTE and spoke with her most carefully crafted voice- the one built to elicit pity. "I'm sorry, guys," she said with sincere regret. "Something came up and I… I gotta leave for today. But that doesn't mean I won't be back tomorrow!" She finished the message with an uninspired giggle that left the viewers in total confusion. _Did something happen? Who was that? Why is she ending the strea-?_

The monitor flashed blue, and then turned off. Hana could see the echo of her face reflected in the glassy black screen- pale and bored-looking. _Shouldn't I be more distraught over this?_

It had been, in the beginning, total hell.

Nine-year-old Hana simply could not comprehend what would make a father leave his wife and children to an instable financial situation. Nine-year-old Hana could simply not comprehend why her mother would vanish for long periods of time, only to come back smelling of alcohol and sobbing over the stupidest things. Nine-year-old Hana had no idea how to make enough money to support her family…

 _Except for to quit school and go into gaming,_ Hana thought. Without the glow of her computer screen, the darkness of the apartment suddenly felt suffocating. She stood up, and after a few steps, she felt herself collapse onto the bean bag that had been her bed for the past six years.

To say that Hana resented her mother was an understatement. All of Hana's hopes and dreams and friends and her _life_ had been wasted on supporting _her,_ a drunkard that could no longer string more than two relevant sentences together. She had long ago given up on taking out her anger on the woman… it wasn't as if she'd understand anyways. Now there was nothing to do but keep the feelings smoldering in her chest. Like embers that only needed a hint of wind to burst into flames.

 _But now one of my dreams might actually come true,_ Hana consoled herself. She would be able to leave this cramped apartment, where it only ever smelled like cigarettes, soju, and stale instant ramen. She would become what she had always promised herself she'd do, but never truly believed she had the capability of achieving: actually doing something with her currently worthless life.

Hana curled up on the bean bag, still dressed in the pink pajamas that she'd worn throughout the entire day. She saw little point in changing. Peaceful sleep descended upon Hana for the first time in years, brought by the reassurance of her future that she had always longed for. And with it, came the dreams… of how she had met _them._

_Overwatch._


	2. overwatch returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hana recounts how she met Overwatch a few days previous.

Hana's dreams that night could be considered partly a nightmare.

She found herself standing back by the beach from three days ago. The old Omnic manufacturing company JUNSIN had shut down following the Omnic Crisis. Now one of JUNSIN's largest factories, stationed in Busan, Korea, lay abandoned by the ocean, slowly but surely falling apart. Wind howled through the rusted structure, scattering the soft sand of the beach, and creating ominous groaning sounds. As Hana made her way through the creepy old place, she recounted the series of seriously sketchy events that had happened leading up to her being at an abandoned factory.

She had been streaming a game of StarCraft, as usual. The tech-savvy girl had her IP address wired through multiple proxy servers which ran addresses from places as far as Antarctica, making her location near impossible to find.

Or so she thought.

When the message HANA, I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE started to appear repeatedly on her Twitch chat, Hana knew something was off. No one was supposed to know the girl's name, and far less know where she _lived._

Despite knowing the risks of talking to strange stalkers over the net, curiosity won out. She had messaged the stranger. WHO ARE YOU?

Via PM, the stranger claimed that they were representing Overwatch- a ridiculous claim. The Petras Act had banned any Overwatch-related activities in a very public, very nasty series of press conferences…Hana still remembered the entire ordeal being played live on her computer. Overwatch's return was impossible.

But in the end, Hana's curiosity won out- what sort of harm could befall her for reading the email they sent her, anyways? Practically nothing. And so, with a deepening sense of befuddlement, Hana clicked on the email. The email read as follows:

_Miss Hana Song-_

_Following the reformation of Overwatch, we, the combat-oriented portion of the aforementioned organization, have found that the absence of many of our previous agents presents a risk to the continued success of our operations. Therefore, we would like to consider adding you to our ranks._

_If you so choose to accept this invitation, please meet us at the former head factory of Omnic-manufacturing conglomerate JUNSIN about two miles to your northwest at 3:00 PM tomorrow. Failing to appear at this meeting will result in termination of your invitation._

_Thank you,_

_Overwatch_

If this was a troll, then it was a _seriously_ good one.

In the end, decision hadn't been difficult to make. At the young age of fifteen, Hana was experiencing a sort of existential crisis. Her life was being squandered on meaningless video games, an absentee father, and a mother who cared more for a bottle than her own daughter. Whether this message was sent by actual Overwatch agents, a crazy stalker who wanted to abduct her, or someone who wasn't going to show up at all, as far as Hana was concerned, it didn't matter- if it provided some brief respite from her miserably monotonous life, then it was welcome.

And so there she was, wandering the ruins of the Omnic factory, having walked two miles just to get there. Over the years, as global warming had taken its toll on South Korea's coastline, the water level had risen enough so that a thin carpet of ocean water covered the ground, rusting the skeletal remains of the factory. The sun shined through the collapsed frame, forming dancing spots of light in Hana's hair.

For as long as Hana could remember, people had warned her to stay away from the factory. Tales of dormant Omnics rising from their burial in the sand had been commonplace. Now, she couldn't quite understand why they had thought the place was so scary. Hana breathed in the scent of salt, dark hair scattering in the ocean breeze, which created small ripples in the crystal clear, ankle-deep water. She made her way slowly towards the center of the ruins, her bare feet sinking into the wet sand with each step.

_It's probably pretty dangerous to be here, though,_ she thought, gazing up at the metal arching above her head. The ruins gave off the air of something that could collapse at any moment. Unconcerned, she pulled her hood lower over her head before sitting down on what she soon realized was the giant head of an ancient Omnic, long dismantled in the war. So what if she died?

_No one's here._ Surprisingly, Hana was not at all angry. The two-mile walk to the place had been relaxing, and the factory was eerie, sure, but also soothing and atmospheric. Whether or not the unknown messengers would appear, or not-

"I told you she'd come," said a voice reminiscent of an old woman's with nearly smug satisfaction.

Hana got up immediately, the water sloshing at her feet. Approaching from between the pillars of metal were two _very_ peculiar people.

One was an old lady. She was draped in a coat made of thick fabric rimmed with blue. From underneath her hood, a single golden eye stared, hawklike, while her other eye was covered with a black eyepatch. A braid of gray hair ran down her back, further enforcing her seniority. Slightly hunched over, she sloshed towards Hana with an expectant smile on her face.

The other figure was even more peculiar- what appeared to be an Omnic covered, from head to toe, in white plated armor, followed closely behind the old lady. Green light glowed from the cracks in the plating, and a visor covered the Omnic's face. With increasing alarm, Hana realized that both were armed- the old lady carried what appeared to be rifle, complete with a scope, while the Omnic carried… a katana?

"Genji was convinced you weren't going to come," said the old lady. Hana couldn't move as the lady stopped just a few feet from her, studying her face. Up close, Hana thought she could see a scar running beneath the lady's eyepatch. "The youth nowadays aren't as gutsy as they used to be, you see." This she said with a hint of amusement. Hana opened her mouth. Not a word came out.

Her feet glued in place, Hana watched as the Omnic stopped next to Ana, staring back at Hana with similar apprehension. "She is very young," he noted, his metallic voice tinged with a Japanese accent. The sound seemed to resonate through the area. "Perhaps she is not ready yet. We can wait-"

"Waiting, waiting, waiting," the old lady cut in impatiently, waving a gloved hand. "Is that all you can think to do?" She turned towards Hana. "My name is Ana Amari, and the cyborg there is Genji Shimada." She raised her hand, obviously expecting Hana to shake it.

_Ana Amari…_ A memory buried away deep inside of Hana's head resurfaced, half-gone from years of neglect. The beaming face of an Egyptian beauty with an Eye of Horus tattoo stamped under her eye…an agent that had fallen to the hands of Talon during a botched recovery mission, if Hana recalled correctly. The old lady standing in front of her was a far cry from the Ana Amari in Hana's memory… but the way she stood, the smile, the strict way in which she spoke… it was all unsettlingly familiar.

As for the Omnic- hadn't Ana called him a _cyborg?_

Instead of asking any of the other million questions populating her mind, Hana blurted out, "He's not an Omnic?"

Ana started to say something- a harsh rebuke?- but Genji interrupted with a chuckle, which eventually evolved into a full-blown, hearty laugh. His strange, processed laughter was so infectious that Hana could feel the corners of her lips turn up slightly, despite the strangeness of the situation.

"I was-and still am- all too human," said the man(?) warmly. Hana felt her face turn pink, as she realized her question was basically an insult, but the cyborg continued airily- "Do not feel too badly, as your reaction is quite a common one."

"He's been cybernetically enhanced," added Amari helpfully. Upon Genji's lighthearted reaction, a wary smile had grown on Amari's face. "So he doesn't quite look like what he used to…"

"Indeed. In my opinion, I have become handsomer by far," said Genji stoically.

Hana's smile twitched. She felt like laughing, but still wasn't sure how to respond to the strange situation. Inside her head, a strange kind of explosion was taking place. A silent revelation of gigantic proportions.

These were in fact actual members of Overwatch.

_Overwatch._ Really. Hana swallowed, hard, then straightened up, suddenly all too aware of her messy hair and lack of shoes. Thankfully, she'd been forced to learn English in order to reach an international audience over stream, so communication couldn't be thatbig of a deal. Hana brought forth her best English and let fly a sentence: "Why are you here?"

"We're in need of agents," replied Amari simply. The sniper leaned back against a rusted beam, pulling a trigger on her rifle to bring up the scope. She pulled the trigger over and over again, as if it were a kind of habitual tick. Hana watched, transfixed by the motion. "You understand that our reformed Overwatch is not public? We can hardly go around recruiting publicly if we're not supposed to exist." Amari let out a short bark of a laugh. "You can say that our situation is… desperate."

"Winston- our chief informant, as of the moment- thought that your reaction time is superb. Inhuman, in fact," said Genji, who was pacing back and forth restlessly. Steam exhaled from the ventilation ports on his shoulders. He sounded like he had practiced this speech many times before. "This, in conjunction with your quick thinking, are qualities of a good Overwatch agent. You could do much for our cause." He paused to look directly at Hana, who jumped at the unexpected eye contact. "He is quite a big fan of you." Despite the cyborg's glowing green visor, which obscured his face, she could tell that he was smiling. If he even could.

Things were beginning to make some semblance of sense. However, one problem stuck out to Hana like a sore thumb. Why had no one addressed it yet?

"I can't fight," muttered Hana. She twisted the corner of her hoodie in her hands nervously. "I've never shot a gun before, or been in combat."

"You have," interrupted Amari. "Every time you play a game, in fact."

"Skills for a MOBA don't translate directly to an FPS like that!" burst out Hana. The gravity of the statement seemed to be lost on Genji and Amari- no doubt they did not understand the terminology she had used. Taking a deep breath, Hana continued, slower- "I mean, the sort of games I play aren't anything like being in an actual battle. If you give me a gun and put me out on the field, I'd sooner shoot myself than an actual target." She hated her voice for peaking even higher than usual.

Amari shook her head. "We don't expect you to march around on the field with only a gun, dear- only fools like Jack do things like that," she said, her voice warm with what Hana could've sworn was motherly concern. "You're going to march around on the field with a tank and _two_ guns. It'll be much safer, I promise."

Were they insane? "Where the hell are you going to get a tank? You said it yourself- you practically don't even exist," said Hana indignantly, throwing manners and respect out the window. Genji answered this one.

"Worry not. The Korean military has developed something called a MEKA in response to intel reports that say that a massive Om-" He hastily cleared his throat, a noise like a car backfiring, when Ana shot him a nasty look.

"Go on," prompted Hana, curious.

"The MEKA aids in combat against many things. Especially Omnics," said Ana with the air of one saving a conversation. "However, Omnics in particular can hack a MEKA on autopilot, meaning that someone must manually control it for it to be any good." She eyed Hana, eyebrows creased. "You have the best reaction time in the world. There's no one more fit for such a machine."

Hana flushed. How many years had it been since Hana had received a compliment? The drunken ramblings of her mother occasionally included remarks upon Hana's appearance (often employing the words 'fat,' 'ugly', and 'messy'), and that woman was the only person in the world that Hana personally knew. Sure, she may have millions of fans as DVA, but none of them truly knew… almost anything about Hana, now that she really considered it. The old lady's straightforward remark on Hana's abilities left the approval-starved teen practically shivering with glee.

"I guess…" Hana faltered under the combined strength of Amari and Genji's stares. "I guess I can give it a go?"

Amari broke out into a smile. Genji nodded approvingly. Feeling flattered beyond belief, Hana gave a cautious smile back.

"That simplifies things a great deal. Amari-san can head back to Gibraltar, while I stay here a bit longer." Genji turned towards Hana, and uttered the next words so _damned_ casually that she almost missed their significance: "All we need is the approval of your guardians. You're not yet a legal adult, yes?"

_Approval of your… guardians?_

"I- well-" _What do I do? They can't meet Mother!_ "I know for sure… for sure that they're all right with it," said Hana hastily, forcing a neutral expression onto her face. "With, me, uh, joining Overwatch, I mean." Her words rang suspicious in even her _own_ ears. "So there's no reason to…"

"I'd like to take your word for it, but I can't," said Ana matter-of-factly. "Besides, we need to get information from them that we can't receive from you." The sniper hefted her rifle to her shoulder. "Mothers know best," she said, almost in sing-song.

_Not_ my _mother, you crazy old bat,_ Hana thought with panic. "They're busy most of the time. And I'd hate to pose an inconvenience to…" She trailed off as Genji and Amari exchanged concerned looks. "I'm right here, you know!"

"Genji will be meeting you at your address in four days' time," said Amari shortly. Hana didn't dare question the old lady, whose voice had gone steely. "If all goes well, I'll be seeing you again." Amari offered her hand again, which Hana reluctantly took. After the firm handshake, Amari backed off, disappearing into the ruins. Genji shot Hana a long, sidelong glance before going after Amari.

And as suddenly as they had come, they were gone.

Hana stared after them for what seemed like a while. Overwatch was back, and… they had to meet her _fucking parents?_ She stomped around in a noisy circle angrily, splashing water all over her rolled-up jeans.

_There is no one more fit for such a machine,_ indeed. _You'll get a tank and two guns,_ indeed. Why were they treating her like a fucking _kid?_

_Because you are one,_ said a quiet voice at the back of Hana's head. _This isn't something that you're ready for. Wars a serious business. You could die._

But Hana wasn't afraid of dying- not really, not now. She wasn't attached to living enough to really dread death. What she _did_ dread was the looks of pity on the agents' shitty faces when they realized that her shitty fucking parents were fucking garbage. Hana hated pity with a passion.

"Fuck off," she said out loud, and to no one in particular. Then she remembered that she had never asked how they had figured out her home address.


	3. confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nara Song is Hana's mother in name only.

_Warning: Alcohol, mentions of abuse, and slight mature themes are present in this chapter._

_Sorry for the delay, guys! I was visiting a friend overseas (in Korea, ironically) and so I didn't have very much time to write. Expect an update for_ The Soldier and the Rabbit _sometime next week along with an update for this one._

There were only two things in the world that could get Hana Song to wake up before ten o' clock in the morning. One was a second Omnic Crisis. The other was the prospect that Genji was visiting her apartment.

The place was a mess, to say the least. Empty bottles of soda were stacked in a pyramid-like formation all around her desk, which was covered in empty bags of chips. Towering piles of instant ramen bowls located in all four corners of the living room brushed the ceiling. Her bean bag and computer took up a lot of the apartment, making navigating the room awkward and difficult.

But Hana couldn't concern herself with something petty like her pigsty of an apartment, not when there was a much bigger danger present. One that made her stomach feel like it was in free-fall.

_Her mother was not home._

Usually, this was a cause for celebration. All-day gaming and streaming, without her mother trying to verbally abuse her? That was enough for Hana to be in a good mood practically all day. But no- today was the day that Overwatch had to meet her 'guardians', meaning it was the literal _one_ day that Hana had been counting on her mother to be home.

She picked at one of her chair's armrests, which had turned slowly into tattered fluff from the destructive habit.

Hana's mother had always been a confusing figure in her life. She was an enigma; a mystery with erratic behavioral patterns and mood swings that Hana simply couldn't understand, much less predict. There were many times when Hana wanted to slap her for being so shamelessly exploitable.

There were also times when the woman would return home sobbing and dead drunk, and Hana would be seized with the sudden, strange desire to hug her.

Even the staunchest drinkers usually took a breather some point in the week, and for Nara Song, that day was Friday. That is to say, the day that Amari-nim had appointed as the 'meeting day'.

Would Hana's mother be an insufferable, cranky mess suffering from a hangover during the meeting? Yeah, well, at the very least, she wouldn't be a _sobbing,_ insufferable, manic-depressant mess suffering from a hangover. Hana knew- and it was like knowing the date of one's death- that today, Nara would be coming home late, if at all, _very_ drunk.

The feeling of being on a rollercoaster ride from yesterday had changed. She was riding the same rollercoaster, but now it was like she knew part of the track was missing. _It's the feeling of impending doom,_ she thought to herself sourly.

As Hana paced around the room, she thought her heart would explode from her chest. She chomped on a piece of bubble gum, as she often did when she was nervous- the more upset she was, the more bubble gum she chewed. What would she do when the cyborg man showed up to find her apartment empty?

 _I'll say that Mother had an emergency appointment or something,_ Hana thought quickly. _And that he should show up again next Friday._

It was a bit of a long shot, but Hana saw no better alternative.

_You don't need her. Be brave._

 

* * *

 

 

As she was popping a fourth piece of gum into her mouth, the door went _clang._ Not _knock knock._ Just, ' _clang'._ Immediately, Hana knew that it was the metal-knuckled Genji that was at the door.

She almost tripped over an empty bottle of soju as she skittered to the door. Kicking the bottle to the side, Hana grabbed the door handle and opened it wide, exhaling a high-pitched "Yes?"

The cyborg couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. "Agent Song?" The greeting came out sort of like a question. Hana quickly gathered herself, dusting the lint off of her jeans.

"Sorry, the place is a bit of a mess," said Hana hurriedly. "Didn't have time to- I mean, what am I saying? Come on in." She felt her cheeks going pink; why was she such a mess? "Sorry, I, just…" She gave up trying to explain midsentence, and stepped away from the door.

Genji came inside cautiously, as if the poorly lit apartment were radioactive, or perhaps secretly littered with mines. He delicately picked his way over to the bean bag, sidestepping several empty bottles of soju. Hana thought she would die of shame as he turned, slowly, to drink the sight of the place in, and jumped when he asked, "May I sit down?"

 _That's my bed, actually._ "Of course!" she squeaked.

Hana sat down in her swiveling chair as Genji lowered himself gingerly into the bean bag. On a better day, the sight of seeing the clearly militant cyborg awkwardly placed on top of Hana's floral-patterned bean bag would've made Hana laugh.

But she didn't laugh. So, for a while, there was nothing but tense silence.

Hana opened a bag of chips- _El Dorados._ Her favorite. "Um, do you want some?" she offered.

"I no longer partake in the consumption of food," said Genji vaguely. "So, unfortunately, I must refuse."

More silence. Hana wasn't an idiot- she knew that Genji had lots of questions, the main one being, _where the fuck is your mom?_ A question she couldn't bring herself to answer.

What was she supposed to say? Hana hadn't talked to anyone face-to-face in years, excluding her mother, who hardly counted. She had never mastered the art of small tank. The tangible pressure in the air was driving her insane. Her fingers curled, causing a little crinkling sound to emanate from the bag of _El Dorados._

 _You_ do _talk to people. All the time, really,_ the little voice said. _Just pretend you're on a stream._

Hana rocked back and forth on her chair for a bit, before managing, "I should've cleaned this place up, yeah?" She watched Genji, hoping, _praying_ for a positive reaction.

To her surprise, he answered, chill as always. "Your living space is fine the way it is." He lifted his prosthetic arm to point at the wall, where the Great Pyramid of Soda Cans stood. "To think that you possess the architectural knowledge required to build something so immense…" His robotic voice was filled with mirth.

 _That was a joke,_ Hana realized, and a little smile crept onto her face.

 _Just pretend you're on a stream,_ the voice urged.

"Well, I've had lots of time," said Hana, kicking back. "And practice, for that matter. A crippling addiction to soda grants one the power to build many things." She winked, a move that felt so damned unnatural that she had to fight the urge to cringe. Thankfully, Genji didn't seem to react the same way.

_It's something that DVA would do, yeah?_

"My mother is away a lot, so I have too much time on my hands." The lie slipped out so easily, so _casually_ ; it was almost disturbing. What was going on with her? "Actually, she left for an emergency meeting today, so I'm not sure when she'll be back." _Please just leave._

To her disappointment, Genji did not seem discouraged. "I do not have anything of particular importance on my schedule. I have time to wait." He crossed his legs and settled back, tossing out a "How is your mother?"

"She's, uh, doing fine." _Unfortunately._ Quickly, Hana changed the subject from one touchy subject to another. "There's something that's been on my mind…"

Every logical part of Hana's mind was screaming _no, no, no, don't ask him, you just met him, he's practically a stranger,_ but the little voice in her head was egging her on- _yes, yes, go on, ask him._

Maybe it was the heat of the moment. Perhaps it was just she had to say something, _anything,_ to fill that dreadful silence. Before she could stop herself, DVA found herself asking, "Did you become a cyborg because you wanted to? I mean, I heard about the super-soldier program in Overwatch… and I was just wondering if it was the same sort of dea-"

Genji shut DVA down hard and fast: "Only a fool would undergo such changes voluntarily." His reconstructed voice had gone sharp; sharper than Hana had ever heard it go before. "No one should even consider it."

Hana froze up. _What was I thinking?_

"I- I didn't mean-"

Loud noises. Hana went still, ceasing the rocking of her chair. The sound of footsteps… heavy, stumbling footsteps of more than one person. Hana went from very hot to very cold as she heard deep, raucous laughter from behind the door- joined by a pitchy, high one. The rattle of keys, someone fumbling for the doorknob-

_Oh, please, no. God, no, please-_

In through the door burst a tall man, broad in his shoulders and arms, dressed in a greasy red dress shirt. The tattoo of a dragon coiled around the man's arm, stained the color of blood. The dragon curled around Korean characters reading '쌍 칼'- Ssang Kal, or 'Twin Knives.' Tension filled the room, heavy on Hana's shoulders. She was vaguely aware of Genji rising to the left of her, obviously sensing a threat.

But to Hana, the fact that a prominent member of a prominent gang had just stormed her apartment sporting his criminal allegiance on his arm wasn't what bothered her. It was the terrible, soul-crushing realization that the giggling, drunken woman hanging off of that arm was her _mother_ that made Hana want to just… disappear.

"Get out of the, the, housssse, Hana dear," slurred Mrs. Song with a foolish grin on her ruddy face, clutching at the gangster's arm. Two high red spots burned on the woman's cheeks. She didn't even bother look at Hana. "Mr. Seon is here."

Mr. Seon, a man that thought his relative attractiveness and position as a _kkangpae_ basically meant that he was a god, glared at Genji, his piercingly dark eyes almost accusing. He completely ignored Hana. "What… what is an _Omnic_ doing at your house, Nara?"

Hana flinched. Korea was an Omnic-manufacturing powerhouse- the country's technologic capabilities in regards to robotics had been extraordinary from the very beginning. Numerous Omniums populated the country's cities. The Omnic-to-human ration was high, to say that least.

And almost all of those numerous Omnics had gone haywire during the Crisis.

Ever since that time of death and destruction, Korea's feelings towards Omnics had overall become somewhat ambivalent. The average citizen remained too politically correct to really denounce the Omnics, and the new generation, having not grown up during the Crisis, found nothing wrong with their robotic counterparts. After all, the day-to-day lives of most of Korea's civilians required a lot of Omnic interaction.

Of course, the true feelings of some never really did change, though they only really emerged when… they became too drunk, per say.

As Mr. Seon swayed in his spot, bloodshot eyes fixed on Genji, Hana waited for Genji to ask her what her mother was doing with a mobster, eyes squeezed shut to block out the terrible sight. _It's better to just get it over with…_ She wiped her sweaty palms off on her jeans.

"Ms. Song." Hana flinched. Genji's voice was so _tense._

"Who are these people?"

_Who are these people?_

He didn't even think that Hana was related to her mother. Part of her wanted to crawl under a rug and never come out, while another part of her was strangely relieved- _I don't resemble my mother at all, then._

Hana swallowed the knot in her throat, not daring to look at Genji. So instead, she looked at her sock-covered feet, hiding behind a dark curtain of hair.

"That's… my mother," she mumbled, face on fire.


	4. hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hana's mother isn't very nice.

"That's… my mother," she mumbled, face on fire.

The confusion was clear in the metallic edge of Genji's voice, though he was obviously trying to hide it out of courtesy. "This… your mother is-"

"Omnic," rumbled Mr. Seon, hand sliding to his pocket, where Hana knew a large knife was hidden- a solid six-inch blade. Hana would know- he'd threated her with it twice before. "Get out, or I'll make you." The overpowering smell of soju coming from the doorway made Hana want to throw up. Nara Song nearly toppled over, clutching at Seon's arm.

Genji took a step forward, an empty soda can crunching under his foot. "Mr. Song," he said, and the words were like a slap to Hana's face, because it meant that Genji was assuming that the man that routinely showed up and _threatened_ her was in fact her _father-_

"Mr. Song, I am here on behalf of your daughter," Genji said, forging on with forced determination. He sounded oddly calm for someone being threatened with a knife, standing straight and still- even though he had to look up to stare into Mr. Seon's eyes, which were a good half foot above Genji's. "She is-

" _My_ daughter?" Mr. Seon laughed again, pulling Ms. Song lewdly close to him, causing her to shriek with laughter. Hana's stomach turned- she was used to this sort of behavior, especially coming from Mr. Seon, and yet Genji's presence in the place made everything feel so _disgusting_.

"That _herehjashik_ is no daughter of mine. I'd not sire something so useless." Though Genji obviously could not understand Mr. Seon's rough Korean, he visibly tensed at the man's tone of voice. "And I wouldn't marry a slut like this woman," Seon added like an afterthought, Ms. Song giggling like a brainless idiot in response.

 _Stop them,_ Hana cried in her head, and for one crazy moment, she thought her mother was going to step in, to prevent the conflict from happening…

But one look at Ms. Song, still curled around Mr. Seon's arm, all red-lipped smiles, and Hana knew the gravity of the situation was lost on the woman.

_You don't need her. Be brave._

Genji stepped back in surprise as Hana darted forward, planting herself firmly between Genji and the drunken duo.

"Please, Seon-nim!" she pleaded in her most formal Korean, hating her trembling voice, hating how high-pitched it was. She was angry, yet she sounded so frightened. "Please don't try to fight him. He's…" Her mind raced- he was _what?_ What could earn their at least temporary respect?-

"… a very rich man, Seon-nim," she said, ducking her head so as not to look into the man's eyes. "And he's not an Omnic, either."

Silence. Hana took the lack of interjections as a sign that the gangster was listening, and plucking up a little courage, continued: "He has something to discuss with my moth-"

Mr. Seon's hand slammed into the side of Hana's head with enough force for her to jerk back, stumble, and then fall to her feet in a tangle of limbs. Everything had gone strangely tilted and blurry; Hana hiccupped as the slap continued to ring in her ears, hot tears prickling in her eyes. She was vaguely aware of Genji grabbing the back of her hoodie and dragging her back roughly, out of harm's way, with an alarmed yell of " _Mr. Song!"_ as Mr. Seon chuckled and stepped towards Genji.

From her position on the floor, Hana watched with a sense of dread as Mr. Seon took a swing at Genji, she tried to yell _no, stop,_ but the side of her face that Mr. Seon had hit was swelling up and her jaw hurt like a bitch. And it didn't even matter if she said anything, because Genji didn't even reach for his katana- his hand latched onto Mr. Seon's arm like a vise; Mr. Seon grunted in surprise as the flesh around Genji's metallic fingers went white-

"You do not hit children," said Genji coldly. He sounded as if he desperately trying to keep his inner peace. Hana watched in awe as Mr. Seon tried unsuccessfully to rip his arm from the cyborg's grip, clawing at his fingers with his other hand, muscles bulging and skin going red with the effort. Fear flitted across the man's features as he began to realize his situation. Her mother stood off to the side, her fancy updo all in a mess, gaping at the scene unfolding before her, hands fluttering in the air.

In other words, it was a scene straight from a nine-year-old Hana's dreams of paradise.

"Let… let go of me!" puffed Mr. Seon as he scratched and pulled at Genji's metallic arm, voice steadily rising higher than she'd ever heard it go before. Genji stood ominously still under the flickering lights, his visor glowing green in the dim room. For all anyone knew, he could've been a statue.

Hana gingerly peeled herself off the carpeted floor, arms trembling, and was immediately greeted by a throbbing headache.

As Mr. Seon struggled to free himself, Hana entertained the sadistic thought of letting the two stay like that. Mr. Seon certainly deserved it, she resolved- he was one of the more violent of Nara's on-and-off boyfriends, and had the maturity of a six-year-old to boot. He'd respond to every little insult with a punch, often with a much smaller person on the receiving end of the blow.

But no matter how closed-off, strained, and fed up with life Hana was, one thing was for sure- she wasn't a violent person. This was a confrontation she had to stop.

She limped over to where the two men were and gently tapped Genji's shoulder. "Ah… Genji-nim… you may want to let him go now. It might be, um, bad if you don't." Hana tried hard to keep her shaking voice steady.

"I'm rather afraid that he will attempt to attack you again if I do as you say, Miss Song," said Genji coolly. His silvery voice was laced with steel. "I can't have that."

 _He thinks I'll get hurt again somehow?_ "I'm fine," Hana said quickly, with a flare of pride. _Something like this won't keep me down for long._ She rubbed the side of her face, where she could feel the beginnings of a black eye start to form. The anger she had felt at Mr. Seon was still smoldering somewhere inside of her, but- _I'm not a child, I have to be mature._

"I'm used to it," she said complacently, and then realized that was the wrong thing to say when Genji's head snapped to face her, his visor flaring green. She avoided his eyes.

"Why have you not told your relatives about _this?"_ He dropped Mr. Seon's arm to gesture at the room, and Mr. Seon jumped to a safe distance from Genji, cradling his arm to his chest. "How long have you-"

"I haven't got any relatives that want to associate with my… mother," said Hana, chewing slowly on her gum. The words tasted heavy, and… so _bitter_ in her mouth. "And, well, it's okay, I guess. My situation, I mean. I mean, It's not…." The stunned air of disbelief around Genji made her cringe _. My face must be so unbelievably red right now._ "I'm fine, really."

_Am I, though?_

Genji obviously didn't think so. He turned towards Mr. Seon, who was still nursing his injured arm. "Never show your face here again," Genji commanded, his tone full of bite. The man didn't need to be told twice- he was out of there in an instant, leaving a very confused Nara Song alone in the apartment with Genji and Hana.

And for a long, still moment, there was nothing but the tick of the clock hanging on the wall, precisely three minutes off.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

Hana broke the silence. "Are you going to tell her?" she asked Genji wearily, face still stinging. All the action had drained Hana of energy. _I don't care who he thinks I am anymore._

Hana's words snapped Genji out of his trance. He took a step towards Ms. Song, hands spread slightly as if he were approaching a wild animal. "Ms. Song. My name is... ah… Mr. Suzume." The name was obviously a pseudonym. He sounded comically uncertain- the entire confrontation between him and Hana's mother's boyfriend had left him in a uniquely awkward situation. "Your daughter has been invited to a special program that-"

"I haven't got the money," snapped Ms. Song in accented English, who apparently had gathered her wits again, however temporary. She dusted off the skintight red polyester of her dress as she stepped forward, glaring at Genji from underneath mascara-laden lashes. "I don't know who you are, or what you want from my daughter, but we can't afford it."

"I _can,"_ blurted Hana, shooting to her feet. Her pulse was throbbing in her ears; this was her only chance to escape from this miserable life, and if this woman was going to hold her back…

_You don't need her. Be brave._

"You might not have a job, but I've been-"

"Hana," cut in Genji. Hana fell silent.

"This is a… scholarship of sorts. No money will be required for her to join." Genji crossed his arms, the carbon fiber of his prosthetics scratching across each other. "All we seek is your permission."

"You barge into my home, stir up trouble, and then try to take my daughter? Are you crazy?" Ms. Song took another step forward, chin lifted, defiant. "Why should I listen to you, Omnic?"

It took every fiber of Hana's body not to intervene as Genji swiftly responded. "I understand that I may have caused some… trouble, but I couldn't just stand by and watch as your husband treated your daughter like a… like that." Quiet anger rippled in his voice. "Family should not hurt one another."

Hana just _had_ to speak up. "He's not my dad," she corrected. "That man… Mr. Seon is…. Ms. Song's boyfriend." She couldn't bring herself to call that woman her mother. "My father left a while ago." She turned pink under Genji's surprised gaze, which she once again evaded by turning to her mother. "Now answer Mr. Suzume's question."

Ms. Song fiddled with her dress. Then she turned her gaze on Hana.

Hana could tell exactly what the woman was thinking. _If Hana leaves, then my source of income is gone._

"She's… not leaving," Nara Song slurred, firmness disappearing, drowsiness slowly overtaking her. "She can't go. She's my daughter."

Hana couldn't stand it anymore- she yelled, sharply, "NARA!". Both Ms. Song and Genji flinched.

The throbbing headache was back in full force. How _dare_ this woman try to make choices for her? And not out of love, or kindness, or _anything_ but financial gain. The unfairness of the situation was driving Hana over the edge. "You're not in charge of me," she seethed, hands clenched into fists. Angry tears of frustration were burning in her eyes again, for whatever stupid reason, but she refused to let them fall.

"You- you've been gone for a long time, Ms. Song." And it was true- Hana had to quit school, utilize her gifts in gaming, pay for everything, all while her mother only came to the apartment one or two hours a day.

As far as Hana was concerned, they didn't even live together anymore. Ms. Song was simply a guest that had overstayed her welcome.

Hana had lived through fear, and pain, and threats issued by the men that her mother brought into her life. She had been forced to desperately try and keep her life together by, in a way, ruining it, dropping out of school and crushing her future. The nights that she'd cry herself to sleep, cupping a handful of pills in her hand, were so numerous that they had faded into each other, into one neverending nightmare.

She'd been blinded by nightly dreams of a happy family, united under one roof. She had been blinded by visions of her father returning, sweeping her up into a hug, putting pieces of his broken wife back together. She'd been blinded by thoughts like _things will get better, things always get better, just wait and see._ She'd seen visions of a happy future, of a poor family wealthy in happiness.

But those visions hadn't been prophecies; no, they were simply illusions that got in her way.

The decision was so clear to Hana now- so remarkably clear that she wondered furiously why she had never seen it before.

Genji took a hesitant step towards Hana, hand outstretched, as if to calm her, but Hana had had enough of calm and reason. "This is _my_ life now. _My_ choices. And- and, I'm not your fucking daughter, not anymore." By some miracle of nature, her voice was starting to steady.

"You _are_ my daughter. I am your _parent,_ " yelled Ms. Song. She turned from Genji to Hana, Genji to Hana, looking for some sort of response. "It's MY choice, not hers. She- you- You can't just _leave!_ " The woman's hands clenched like a child throwing a tantrum.

A child that Hana had looked after for six years.

_Be brave. You don't need her._

Hana's voice was like broken glass.

"Watch me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> The suffix -nim denotes respect and is an equivalent to 'Mr.' or 'Ms.'  
> The term 'kkangpae' refers to a Korean gangster.  
> The 'Ssang Kal' are an actual prominent Korean gang, and the name does mean 'twin knives.'  
> In both Korean and Japanese cultures, usually it is unacceptable for one to yell at someone elder than you, which is why Genji and Nara were so surprised when Hana flipped her shit.


	5. night market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji and Hana get the hell outta there.

_Note: THIS IS NOT A GENJIxDVA SHIP, Genji is looking out for Hana like an older brother. (Please keep in mind that Genji is around thirty and Hana is fifteen in this fic, as it's four years before she joined Overwatch.)_

 

 

* * *

Genji had grown up in a broken family. His family, especially his father, had pressured him to do terrible, terrible things, and when he'd refused, his older brother had killed him.

Meaning, he of all people should at least partly understand how Hana felt.

And yet, as the two sat silently in the backseat of the cab, Genji could not think of a single thing to say. It was a vile, frustrating feeling, though he banished it with relative ease, utilizing the methods of his Teacher.

For the hundredth time, his gaze strayed towards the young girl, who was staring pensively out the window, dark eyes looking into their own reflection. She looked so pale and fragile, as if she had been carefully crafted from rice paper. Genji knew the look to be of someone who never ventured out beneath the sun.

Nevertheless, Hana Song was very pretty with her sculpted face, full lips, and lithe form, as Ana had pointed out on their way back from JUNSIN Factory. "With a few changes here and there, we'll have ourselves an idol," she'd hummed with the air of a satisfied cat. Genji hadn't responded. Ana was a great and selfless woman by all means, but thought on such a global scale that she naturally didn't consider the feelings of the individual. Obviously, she thought transforming Hana into a celebrity to boost Overwatch's popularity and image was the obvious path to take.

On the other hand, Genji thought all too personably, and couldn't help but point out that what they were doing was recruiting a _child_ as a soldier.

Amari had waved away Genji's conflicted feelings with a bark of laughter. "Age is just a number- otherwise, I'd hardly be running around with a gun with my age being as it is, now, would I?"

Hana turned and caught Genji staring. A crease formed between her eyebrows when he didn't bother to look away.

"What is it?"

His voice whirred mechanically. "I was wondering if you are all right."

The words were out of Genji's mouth before he could stop them, and quickly he regretted it. Hana frowned, just a little.

"Why wouldn't I be?" She sounded overly defensive, considering the blotchy bruise now extending from her eye to her lower cheek.

 _You were just backhanded in the face, then disowned your alcoholic mother, and are leaving your hometown in a matter of days._ "You look tired, and your wound needs an ice pack, Hana-san," he said, as matter-of-factly as he could, trying not to appear condescending towards the younger girl.

Hana shrugged, then turned back to the window, to the urban scenery rushing past them. He noted that her brows were still creased. Obviously his concern was bothering her.

"I'm fine." She didn't sound angry anymore- just weary. Genji decided to drop the matter.

For now.

The rest of the ride to the hotel was in complete silence.

* * *

They reached their destination just as the sun was starting to fall- a quiet little motel on the South Korean coastline, where it smelled of salt and the ocean. Hana struggled to pick up her suitcase, which was saying something, because it was frankly rather small for something that contained all of her worldly possessions. Genji took it from her with one robotic hand, and carried it into the small motel they'd be staying at, listening with amusement to her hastily muffled protests.

He bid their cabbie farewell before returning to the motel, where Hana stood uncertainly at the door to their place, which was spacious with its five rooms. He flicked on the lights, illuminating the furniture and hardwood floor. Hana stepped over the threshold carefully, obviously pleased, though trying to hide it.

Genji smiled behind his visor. "We'll be staying here for the next three days, while I organize our little trip to Seoul," he said, his voice modulator hissing on the S's.

Hana's head snapped towards Genji. "We're going to _Seoul?_ " She sounded less offended and more surprised, which Genji took to be a good thing. He nodded his head in affirmation. Hana whistled and put her hands on her hips, doing a slow 360 with her head as she surveyed her temporary home.

After a moment, a slight quirk of her lips. "I could get used to this."

"Overwatch headquarters are much larger than this scrap of a house," scoffed Genji with a wide grin. "Though it'll be a while before you're stationed there." He was sure his smile bled over into his tone of voice, because Hana let out a _pfft_ of mock disbelief in response.

As he carried her worn, pink suitcase into her bedroom, he couldn't help but take one long, last look at the girl, who was standing at the center of the living room, staring absently at the window.

Admittedly, he'd expected her to break down as soon as she had left that horrid apartment. To maybe cry, or shake, or scream. He found that was what most did when given such stressful situations for long periods of time.

But no, she'd left the place as casually as could be, without so much as a backwards glance at her mother, face blank as a slate.

There wasn't a doubt in Genji's mind that the physical and mental abuse she'd suffered from the place was smoldering somewhere inside of her, it was just a matter of _finding_ it. There was little to no possibility that she'd walked away from such a terrible place completely unscathed.

 _If experience has taught me anything,_ he thought grimly as he stepped back out of the bedroom, _Hana is a very emotionally compromised girl._

Genji was almost thirty now- young in comparison to some of the other agents, perhaps, but he liked to think he was at least somewhat wise. He'd gleaned all sorts of information from his time with Overwatch, one of the more interesting tidbits being that most of the Overwatch agents were _damaged-_ hurt from their time in duty, or sometimes even before that.

In a way, it was sort of funny. When Angela had found his oozing remains that one fateful day, he'd adamantly believed his life was over. No one could understand him.

No one had felt his pain.

As it turned out, he was wrong, because behind the mask of the hero everyone wore, there was something raw and uncomfortable that hurt to high hell. Maybe he wasn't completely better yet- maybe he still had dreams of blood and flashing swords and falling cherry blossoms. Maybe he still had trouble talking to Hanzo, trying to get through to his stubborn brother.

Maybe he still hated to claim the name _Shimada,_ the name of the criminal empire that had sought to reform him so.

But all that fell away when he realized that he wasn't the only one going through such struggles. The thought helped him to reclaim at least part of his peace. He had assumed he'd be able to help Hana, given the similarities of their situations.

Yet for some reason, Hana wasn't like how he was in the beginning in any way.

Hana didn't seem cold, or unfriendly, or bitter, or sad. Hana smiled, and laughed, and bristled at the mention of help. She held her head high, and her pride even higher.

Hana seemed like such an _ordinary_ girl, and Genji would've never known otherwise if not for having experienced the violence she experienced at home firsthand.

And _that_ was what put Genji at ill ease more than anything, even more than the fact that she was a kid and about to become a soldier. The fact was, the girl had on a mask, one so cleverly woven that Genji wasn't sure if even he could pry it off her face. Or maybe she wasn't wearing a mask at all, and Genji was badly mistaken, and she was just perfectly fine.

 _As if that could ever be,_ he thought with a twinge of sadness, watching as Hana picked up a mug sitting on one of the tables.

"What's this?" she asked, holding it up for inspection, eyebrow raised. DVA's log was carefully drawn on to the mug in pink and black Sharpie, an illegible signature curling around its side.

Genji let out a huff of laughter. "You've got quite a few fans, even back in Overwatch. One of its members sent that along with me. He said he wanted you to have it."

Hana turned the mug carefully over in her hands, eyes going wide at the mention of a 'fan'. "He doesn't even know who I am," she said softly, her cheeks going slightly pink. She set it gently back down on the table, straightened out, then looked Genji square in the eyes. "Tell him I said thank you for the gift. It's very lovely."

She sounded the sincerest she'd been since he'd met her.

He couldn't help but smile again, knowing just how pleased Lucio would be when he received the message. "It's a deal, madam. So, we have a few days to kill before we head for the subway station. What do you usually do in your free time?"

Hana considered this. "Usually I just play games," she said flatly. A prickle of guilt- he'd convinced her to leave her computer back at the apartment, promising to find a way to bring it once they had the necessary storage space.

"I'll make it up to you, then," he offered, quick on the uptake. "Something better than sitting around and playing StarWars, or... CraftyStar. Whatever."

"It's called StarCraft, asshat," Hana retorted, raising an eyebrow as he opened the door to the dusky sky, the quiet murmurs of the sea beckoning from beyond.

Genji chuckled. "We'll get out of here and go to the night market- there just so happens to be one close by. Apparently, it is famous for its street food."

He said this casually, as if it were a coincidence, though in truth he'd planned out everything beforehand, struggling to find something that would keep Hana entertained, before finally settling on this particular motel for its closeness to the night market.

Thankfully, Hana perked up. "The night market? It's been a while since I've been to one of those," she said, thoughtful. "Sounds fun."

Hana tugged on a sturdy pair of black boots, and pulled her hood over her head- it seemed to be an odd habit of hers, as far as Genji could tell. She caught him watching her again, but this time smiled instead of frowning. He felt a flare of warmth, buried deep in the wires that ran through his chest. From behind his visor, Genji smiled back.

Soon, they were out the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The night market was indeed close to the motel, and surprisingly busy for the relatively small population density of the surrounding area. People and Omnics of all kind yelled and talked and sang over the hustle and bustle of the crowd, leaning from stands piled high with good, hot food, or thrusting handfuls of handcrafted jewelry from under discolored awnings to the busy passersby. Lanterns glowed from every corner, lighting up the dusky sky with the muted colors of red and orange.

Hana and Genji swam through the sea of people, Genji sticking close to Hana so that she wouldn't get lost, Hana sticking close to Genji because she had little other choice. Genji led the way, pushing through the warm bodies, creating a space for Hana to follow closely behind him. Even with his sensitized hearing, he'd be unable to hear Hana for some periods of time over the din of the rushing people.

Eventually, he gave up trying to keep track of her and simply grabbed her hand, cool metal fingers closing around pale, warm ones. He felt her jump at the contact and try to pull away, but he didn't let go.

"Unless you want to get separated," Genji said loudly, the metallic edge of his voice cutting through the ambient noise, "just hold on until we get out of the crowd."

There was a bit of halfhearted struggling on the other end, and Genji heard her shout something (probably rude) in Korean, but he ignored it, pulling her through the crowds until they reached a less crowded part of the market.

The jewelry stand he'd seen on his first day in Korea was here, tucked away in the corner of the market, like some sort of local secret. It was decidedly more run-down than the other stalls, but it sported very intricate bracelets, and he'd been quite impressed. He turned towards Hana, saying, "I wanted to buy you some-"

She jerked her hand from his grasp violently, hood half-falling from her head with the action. " _Michin-nom,"_ she spat, clutching her arm to her chest. Genji, startled, took a step back. Hana's face was flushed, and she was breathing more heavily than she normally did.

A pause. Genji's thoughts raced. _What did I do? Does she not like the market?_ Hana's eyes were starting to clear. _Is she scared of me? Just as I was making some progress-_

-and then all of a sudden, Genji realized.

"I… am very sorry, Hana-san," he said slowly. He felt like an idiot for not thinking of it sooner- her aversion to contact had come as a surprise, though now that he really thought about it, why should it?

 _She's probably never had contact with another person that wasn't a slap to the face._ He should've guessed it, or maybe just _asked,_ this was his fault.

"I was not thinking properly. I won't…." He hesitated, again unsure of what to say, and readied himself for her to yell at him, so sure that she was going to get upset, and like hell he certainly _deserved_ it-

But she didn't.

Hana position shifted, and all of a sudden, the mess she had been was gone, neatly covered by a change in facial expression and body language. Genji watched apprehensively as she straightened, face blank as a sheet of paper- and then-

A small smile.

"I overreacted," the Korean girl said smoothly. "I should be the one apologizing." She bowed, ever so slightly, at the surprised cyborg.

For a moment, Genji was stunned. It had taken Hana- what- mere seconds to become the very picture of serenity?

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michin-nom- crazy bastard
> 
> -San -suffix roughly indicating Ms. or Mr., denotes respect
> 
> Night market- In Korea, there is often at least one night market per area. Street food, clothes, handmade items, and other things are sold there from the afternoon all the way into the night.


	6. brother sparrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Hana felt that night, and how they reclaimed their peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here marks the end of the prologue. The story starts next chapter!

_The dull roar of people yelling._

_People talking, people moving, and shoving past me_ -

Hana couldn't stand it. She hadn't been in the midst of such a great crowd, since, well, _ever,_ and she was more than a little overwhelmed by the feeling- hundreds of people pushing in from every side, carrying her powerless self along the current-

Genji waded on ahead, infuriatingly calm, because of course he was calm, he was fucking _Genji,_ while Hana gasped for breath as someone shoved roughly past her, causing her to spin and almost lose balance. Luckily, she caught herself on someone else right as she was about to go down, but it caused her to fall even further behind her cyborg guide.

She surged forward, yelling something that was lost in the din of the crowd. "GENJI!" she tried, ditching the honorific, her voice scratchy from the hot air. Terror was rising in her throat, thick and suffocating as mud.

He ignored her, or maybe he hadn't heard her, and she was losing him, his sleek, plated body having disappeared into the folds of people, she was going to be lost, someone could just steal her away in the commotion and no one would ever _notice_ -

_-and then someone grabbed her hand._

She jumped at the cold contact; she struggled to free herself but the hand's grip was too strong, and all of a sudden, her mind was awash with the possibilities- the _Ssang Kal_ had found her, or perhaps it was Mr. Seon, here to avenge himself from the disgrace Genji had placed upon him. The thoughts were wild, furious, irratic, _illogical,_ but they jumped at her from every side in the hectic confusion, and for a moment she wildly believed them to be true.

Genji's voice called out something, maybe, or perhaps it was just the sound of rattling metal. Hana opened her mouth to yell something back, but her mind was going blank and the only thing she could to think to say was a loud "SHIBAL!" Her voice was lost to the rush, she couldn't move, she couldn't control anything, hands were reaching at her from every side, her voice quieting to a croak, repeated swearings of _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-_

And as quickly as she had been swept into the crowd, she found herself coming out of it.

Hana stumbled as she hit a few stragglers, still being tugged along by the person holding her hand. " _Help_ ," she pleaded, but the passersby opted to pay no attention to her. The word echoed in her head; had she really spoken them at all? Maybe she had just thought the words, and expected someone to come to her aid. As if someone ever did. She looked up, trembling-

And it was just the friendly cyborg holding her hand, body glinting in the glow of the lanterns. He wasn't even looking at Hana as he turned towards what appeared to be another stall of some sort. His voice came out casual, unworried. "I wanted to buy you some-"

Hana yanked her hand from Genji's, still heaving. " _Michin-nom,_ " she spat, and she knew it wasn't fair for her to curse at him but in the moment she had been so utterly _terrified_. Had he even known the scare he had given her?

But then again, how could he have known about her touch aversion? Up until this point, even _she_ hadn't been aware of its existence. All she had known was that she felt vague discomfort when touched; she certainly didn't know it was possible for her to flip out like this-

She looked up through her lashes, breathing steadying, to where Genji stood stock-still, as if he were processing her reaction. Her actions had been completely unwarranted; Hana knew that. _Please don't be afraid._

He took a backwards step. Hana's heart sank like a stone.

 _I messed up. I- I don't know- why did I flip out like that?_ She could still feel tingles running down her arm, from where she had been grabbed. The adrenaline rush buzzed nervously in her head. _He probably thinks I'm a freak._

Shame coursed through her veins. Genji had tried so damn hard to be friendly to her, even going as far as protecting her from Mr. Seon. He'd held her hand so that she wouldn't get lost, not to _attack_ her. What the fuck was wrong with her? The question repeated itself a dozen times in her head. _Why did I react like that?_

"I… am very sorry, Hana-san," she heard the cyborg say uncertainly. Hana flushed.

 _He thinks I'm fragile. I overreacted, this is all my fault. What if-_ and she hated even considering the thought- _what if he sends me back? Because I'm not good enough, not strong enough to be in Overwatch. He thinks I'm just a sensitive little kid-_

He was still speaking calmly, as if trying not to soothe a spooked animal. "I was not thinking properly. I won't…." As he trailed off, Hana straightened her back, forcing herself to swallow all of her anxieties, wiping clean the panicked flush that had spread across her face. Fear was still prickling at her insides, and her mind was alive with terrible thoughts.

_Please don't send me back-_

-Mr. Seon, laughing at her, clutching her hard-earned money in one hand-

_-they're waiting for me there-_

-the stink of alcohol as Hana tried to balance the tray of liquor in one tiny hand, tears burning in her eyes as they laughed at her struggle, her mother's giggle rising above them all-

- _they'll kill me if I return-_

-her lower lip was split, her ribs stung from where she had been kicked-

- _I can't go back!_

"I overreacted," DVA said, voice as steady as you would please. _My mistake, my mistake,_ I'm so sorry, _take me with you._ "I should be the one apologizing."

Almost instinctually, she bowed slightly in Genji's direction. The cyborg went silent, as if completely unsure of how to respond. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Hana's face- what was he thinking, what decisions were he making? _Do I want to know?_

The cyborg's voice came out rich with concern. "Hana-san, raise your head. You have nothing to apologize for." He extended a hand, almost as if to place it on her shoulder, but drew it back after a moment's hesitation.

 _Fragile. Broken._ Hana's face twisted, just slightly.

"I'm not really sure what came over me," she confessed, straightening once again. That much was true. "It was just- the rush. The crowd." She waved vaguely at the receding horde of people, that faint feeling of fear stabbing through her once again. _It wasn't you._ "I-"

"It's fine," Genji cut in, and this time he sounded more firm than gentle. "By no means is it a big deal… Hana."

Hana. Not _Hana-san._ The drop of the honorific made her name hover awkwardly in the silence for just a moment longer than it should have. A sudden surge of warmth came over Hana- an absurd, illogical feeling, because all Genji had done was say a _name_ …

Genji pointed at the stand, obviously as embarrassed as Hana was, which Hana noticed was covered in hanging bundles of intricate, woven bracelets. "Anyways, I brought you here because I thought you'd like one of these." It was the first time Hana heard Genji sound so hesitant, and she felt another rush of warmth for the man.

_He was thinking of me? And after all the trouble I caused him…_

A more cynical part of her was telling her, _of course he's being kind, it'll do nothing but benefit him. Imagine if he were rude to me. Imagine what Amari-nim would say!_ Her feelings soured, but only slightly.

"I couldn't possibly accept another gift," said Hana politely, but Genji had already plucked a bracelet from the rack- one woven together from many strips of soft, maroon leather, studded with rosy glass beads. Hana saw immediately why he had singled this particular bracelet out: a rabbit charm hung from the loops of leather, though not quite as stylized as DVA's logo was. She made a protesting noise as she stepped forward, grabbing his arm to force him to set it down-

 _-see, I_ don't _have any problem with touching people-_

"-Genji, it's fine."

He raised a finger to his (masked) lips with his free hand. "Shh shh shh shh _shhhhh_. Not another word. I need to give you something so that you remember me after you become rich and famous," he said playfully. He offered the bracelet to Hana. The beads made a tinkling noise as they rattled against his metallic finger joints. "How about this one?"

Something inside of Hana felt especially sore as she watched the cyborg ignore her angry outburst as if it had never happened- it was the feeling of guilt, she supposed. _I really don't deserve his kindness._

But knowing he wasn't about to take no for an answer, she forced a grin onto her face and took the bracelet from him. "It's very pretty," she said sincerely, gazing down at the delicate band. The faceted beads sprinkled little dots of light inside of her cupped hands, and the charm felt cool against her skin. "How much does it co-"

"You're not paying for it- we're buying the bracelet so that I can show off how rich _I_ am!" scolded Genji, his modulated voice humming with suppressed laughter. A genuine smile grew out on Hana's face, though she rolled her eyes at his glibness.

Hana could tell the man was grinning behind his visor as he swiped the bracelet from Hana, sticking it over his own wrist. Confused, she opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted when Genji struck a flamboyant pose, swords, mask, pink bracelet and all.

"I'm DVA, and I play to win," he mimicked, and Hana couldn't keep acting cold and distant towards the man anymore. She dissolved into laughter at the painfully accurate rendition of her online persona, before snatching the bracelet from him, putting it on, and squeaking out a "GEE GEE, noob! Is this _eeeeezee mooo-"_

"If you're not going to buy anything, put the bracelet down," grumbled the jewelry vendor from the shadows of the stall's awnings in gravelly Korean. Hana turned to see that the vendor was an old lady, back crumpled from age.

She flashed her best smile in the lady's direction, with a " _Miyaneho, ajumma!_ But we're not buying anything. We'll just put it back…"

Then she realized that the bracelet was gone, and Genji was trotting off towards the stall, a pouch of money having materialized in his other hand. She hastily made his way after him.

"It's expensive, and we really shouldn't be buying it," Hana said, wary. No response.

The cranky woman grumbled to herself as she took the bracelet from Genji's hands, snapping off the price tag with one flick of the wrist. She squinted up at Hana, completely ignoring Genji. "That'll be 12,000 won," she said, hand extended.

Genji turned towards Hana. "What did she say?" he asked, in English. The vendor's face contorted slightly, and Hana heard her snort 'foreigners' under her breath.

"Tell your guard to give me 12,000 won," articulated the woman in slow Korean, still facing Hana. "Are you dead on your feet, child? Go on, tell him."

There was a moment of confusion. _I'm obviously not the one with the money, so why is she-_

And then the realization hit. The lady was assuming that Genji was an Omnic, and most likely a _servant. Hana's_ servant. A feeling of defensiveness surged up in favor of her new (and only) friend; Hana didn't know whether or not to embarrassed or flat-out ashamed. Unconsciously, her mouth opened to say something rude.

"This should be enough," said Genji, sounding completely nonplussed as he counted out 12,000 won. He dropped the money into the lady's open palm, who pocketed it with a suspicious glare aimed at Genji. Hana's head whipped around to Genji, and she was about to say something when she found… when she found that the other customers were staring at them. Openly, blatantly, as if there were nothing rude about the act.

 _Not at me,_ she thought slowly. _At Genji._

They weren't looks of distrust or fear- rather, they seemed impressed. From behind a covered hand, the tall woman standing behind them whispered something in Korean to her short-haired friend, and Hana caught the words _bodyguard, rich,_ and _newer model._

Indignation seized Hana by the shoulders and spun her around to face the pair of women, shooting off in rapid-fire Korean: "He's not an Omnic, and even if he were, you shouldn't just _assume_ that he's _mine_ bec-"

A hand clamped on Hana's shoulder, she jumped and turned, that unsettling feeling from being grabbed suddenly returning to the pit of her stomach, but it was only Genji again. He didn't say anything, just gave her a curt nod.

In other words, a silent _cut it out._

Hana was still trying to form protests with her mouth as Genji dragged her away from the scene, leaving behind the strange looks that the customers were now aiming at their backs. As they neared the edge of the markets, she could hear them beginning to talk louder. The snatches of their conversations that she heard only served to make her angrier:

"How much d'you reckon the Omnic costed?"

"Probably a small fortune. She's one of those rich man's daughters, she is."

"A little girl like that, with such an expensive toy-"

"I'd take it apart, if I were her. Those ventilation ports are worth at _least_ a million wo-"

She tugged on Genji's hand again, no longer fearful of his touch, and burning with anger.

"Genji, wait! We need to go back." _Those fuckers need to shut up._

He didn't stop. She tried to plant her boots into the ground, but the sandy grass didn't offer much traction, and she slid along anyways.

 _How much d'you reckon the Omnic costed?_ Really? What had happened to the entire Omnic Rights movement, and what the hell gave people the idea that they could assume people's biological identities?

And that brief encounter had done more than just shed light on people's thoughts on Omnics- it forced Hana to realize that this was something that Genji dealt with very possibly _every single day,_ something she hadn't even considered upon first meeting him. Her limited interaction with humans had certainly made her aware of the issue, but experiencing it firsthand was something completely different altogether. Her heart was swamped with pity, and then- and then genuine irritation.

Hana scowled at Genji's back. "Aren't you mad at them?" Genji was supposed to have enhanced hearing so there was no way he hadn't overheard them. Sure, he couldn't understand Korean, but he would sure as hell be able to recognize their tone.

_Why aren't you standing up for yourself? You fought Mr. Seon and even talked to my mother; why can't you do this?_

_He did those things for your sake, not his,_ hissed that pesky little voice in her head.

The reddish glow of the night market receded into the background. Wind rippled across the beach, which was overgrown with thin, dark blades of grass.

Genji wasn't responding to her, and he wasn't letting go over her arm, either. Hana supposed that they had left the market for good, then. The Korean girl looked up to where Genji's head was, knowing she was just trying to provoke him at this point, but god _damn_ if those people hadn't gotten her angry…

But no words came out. She was staring up at the sky, and it was _beautiful._

Without the obstructing light from lanterns, Hana could see millions of little stars embedded like diamonds into the vast fabric of the night sky, cold, bright, and ancient. Her breath caught in her throat. She'd never seen such a sight.

Over the span of her fifteen years of life, Hana had rarely ever gone outside, though it wasn't as if she could see a sight like this even if she did leave the apartment- the ambient light of the city made it impossible to make out even the brightest stars.

The wind blew Hana's hair back in streaming, dark ribbons. A peculiar feeling stirred in her chest- one that, strangely enough, was making tears prickle in the corners of her eyes.

Genji let go of her hand. He was laughing as he raised his arms out, as if to embrace the night wind. His armor glinted silver in the starlight.

"Isn't it grand?" His voice came out deep and smooth, the metallic undertones causing it to carry to every corner of the beach, as if he were making an announcement to the sky.

"The world is at peace tonight."

The grasses whispered as the wind caused them to ripple and sway. Hana sat down, in the soft sand of a beach dune. She hugged her knees close to her chest, staring up at the sky, her new bracelet chimed at her wrist, like a choir of little bells.

"It's fucking gorgeous," she breathed.

Something about the scene was affecting her in unfamiliar ways. The anger was slowly draining away. How inconsequential the entire scuffle back at the market seemed, in comparison to the vast openness of the sky. It wasn't really an emotion she could explain, try as she might- just- it was, it was dawning on her that-

_The world is a huge place._

A pang of regret- _And I spent fifteen years just sitting in my room._

Genji sat down next to her, sinking into the sand of the dune with a quiet _hissss_. His glowing visor hummed quietly in tandem with the wind, his ventilators letting out a gentle puff of steam.

She swiveled her head to look at his shadowed form, in the darkness. He had gone very still as he stared at the inky indigo above them, as if seeking an answer written in the stars. Hana didn't know much about the mysterious man's past, and by consequence, didn't know much about the man's ambitions, but something about him felt calm.

_So this is what it means to be at peace._

Silence rang in the air, but it wasn't an awkward silence. It was a peaceful, comfortable silence, more soothing to Hana then any lullaby could've been. The sand sifting between her fingers was still warm from the day's sun, and she found herself sinking slowly into a calm stupor.

 

 

 

 

_. . ._

 

 

 

 

 

"Genji?"

"Yes."

She took a deep breath. "Thanks for this. I…. needed something to cool my head."

Genji let out a noncommittal hum.

Hana leaned backwards until she was flat on her back, the expanse of stars stretching out before her very eyes. She thought, maybe, that they were twinkling.

 _I could stay like this forever._ Hana's lashes fluttered. She let her eyes close, a curtain of black falling over her world.

 _I_ want _to stay like this forever._

"Can we just… sit here a little while?" she asked quietly, into the darkness, where she knew Genji was listening.

Another hum, which Hana took to be of affirmation. A small smile grew out on Hana's face.

So they sat there, the cyborg and the child, until at last Hana fell into the dark holds of sleep.

**_End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ….no, not really the end. It would be nice if everything could just stop like that, though, right?
> 
> Unfortunately for Hana and Genji, the real battle starts next chapter. If violence or injuries or any of the really dark stuff isn't your thing, I suggest you stop reading here, though. Just as a last warning, Hana's nightmares are going to become more intense, and be of considerably more graphic/darker things.
> 
> I just found out about the 'Reviews' function (ha, silly me) and was quite surprised to see that people have actually posted reviews on this story. I read through all of them, and very much appreciate your kind comments. Thank you for supporting me so far, and here's to many more chapters in the future.
> 
> -FillerText
> 
> Translation Notes:  
> Miyaneho, ajumma!- Sorry, (old) lady! Isn't as rude as it may seem; in general calling someone an 'ajumma' is acceptable to those above 40 years of age.
> 
> 12000 won- 'Won' is a Korean unit of money. 12000 won (the cost of Hana's bracelet) is equivalent to about 10.24272 U.S. dollars.
> 
> Busan- Just a geographical note in general, South Korea is almost completely surrounded with water. Busan (Hana's home) is a coastal city.


	7. highway to hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make their getaway in a beat-up sedan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE PROLOGUE IS FINALLY OVER! From now on starts the real story. The chapters from now on will be in present, not past, tense.

 

_She’s locked outside again. Leaning against the familiar grooves of the brick white wall. There’s raucous talking emanating from the door, the clinking of glasses, the stomping of feet. It’s okay, they can be as loud as they want- the neighbors do not dare confront the Ssang Kal, especially when they live in Ssang Kal territory._

_Red steadily creeps up Hana’s toes- it’s winter, and she knows she should’ve brought socks, but in her hurry to leave the apartment she’d totally forgotten. She rubs her hands together in a weak attempt at staying warm, ignores the strange look a man shoots her as he passes the apartment complex, three floors below her. No doubt he wonders why she is there._

_She wonders, too._

_The doors opens to the left of her, and she jumps out of her skin, scrambles backwards as Ms. Song takes a step from the doorframe. Her mother doesn’t explain what’s going on, just grabs her shoulder with that disgusting hand and drags her inside. Hana twists, turns, seeking a way out of the situation. “Don’t touch me!”_

_The gangsters catch sight of her, struggling helplessly, and they laugh and laugh and laugh._

_“Pretty little kitty,” one of them purrs. Hana fights the urge to gag._

_Ms. Song lets go of Hana at the center of the room, where she kneels, panting, red in the face. She looks up, dreading who she is about to see._

_Her worst fears are confirmed; it’s Mr. Seon, sitting on the couch, all wicked grins, surrounded by other men that she doesn’t recognize. The coffee table is covered in shot glasses. Most of them are empty. The smell of alcohol is stifling. They’ve done their drinking, and now they need entertainment… courtesy of Hana._

_Seon’s slightly flushed, which means he’s only partly drunk, fortunately. Hana scratches at her head, looks down. The last time that she’d been allowed inside during a Ssang Kal gathering was when they had wanted her to fetch some more liquor from the store._ What does he want from me this time?

_“How old are you know, Hana?” Mr. Seon’s voice is taunting, although there is nothing taunting about his question. Hana squirms with discomfort._

_“I’m nine,” she says, quietly. Some of the men in the room snicker; Hana can’t figure out what is so hilarious._

_“Tell me, Hana.” Mr. Seon’s pouring himself another glass of soju, and he’s amused all of a sudden. “You dropped out of school, didn’t you?”_

_Hana stares intently at the floor, trying to work out the right answer. She hasn’t dropped out of school, but that’s obviously not the reply Mr. Seon is looking for._

_“School isn’t very fun,” she mumbles, heart hammering in her chest. Mr. Seon gulps down his soju and slams the glass back onto the table. He’s obviously displeased with her reply._

_“Then drop out,” he snaps. “I heard you’re into those computer games.”_

StarCraft, _she corrects him mentally. She grits her teeth._

 _“If you play them instead of going to that useless school, you’ll make more money.” A pause. “You_ do _make money off of them, eh?”_

 _Hana’s head snaps up._ So _that’s_ what all this is about. _She’s angry, and she’s afraid, and she doesn’t want him to take her money because it’s_ hers. _If she lies, maybe-_

_Her attention wanders to Mr. Seon’s knife, lying on the table like an undelivered threat._

_“Yes, sir,” she says tightly. “I… I made a little money.”_

_“100,000_ won _in a month. Pocket change for us, maybe, but that’s a bit much for a little girl.” He’s leering at her, now, threatening. “_ Too _much for a little girl.”_

_The rest of the men are watching silently. Hana’s mother fidgets from Mr. Seon’s side. Seon uses these moments with Hana as opportunities to further his power- to show how intimidating he can be._

_It’s disgusting, because he’s trying to scare a little girl. Her lip curls in contempt, which she hides by ducking her head, her fringe covering her face._

_“It helps pay the bills,” Hana says, and her voice is barely a whisper. She doesn’t want to give in, because the money is rightfully hers. She’d streamed for eight hours a day for the past month just to accumulate that much._ It’s not fair!

_But Mr. Seon doesn’t care, because nobody cares what Hana Song thinks._

_“Where’s the money?” Definitely a threat._

_“You don’t need 100,000 won- you said it yourself, it’s just pocket change,” she shoots back before she can stop herself._

_The consequences are as immediate as they are disastrous. Mr. Seon’s on his feet, skin scarlet from anger or alcohol, probably both. He storms around the coffee table to where she sits, and Hana’s on her feet, darting to the door, because_ if she doesn’t get out _-_

 _The door is blocked by Ms. Song. Hana screams and pelts her mother with her fists, powerless fists, while the woman stares impassively down. She’s hysterical, she can hear Mr. Seon approaching, she’s about to_ die _. Her throat is ragged from the screaming._

_“LET ME OUT! Let me out let me out let me out let m-“_

_There’s a flash of pain, and then everything is black._

 

 

_…_

 

 

_The floor is cold against Hana’s flimsy t-shirt._

_Her head’s throbbing, and her eye- she can’t open her eye. There’s noise coming from the kitchen, and she catches her name tossed around, once._

_“Hana, that little shit, yelling her goddamn head off. You don’t think the neighbors called the police, right?”_

_Everything hurts._

_Hana braces herself against the floor. She can’t seem to get herself upright. Pain lances through her face, through her eye. It’s swollen shut. Gingerly, she touches the bruise. The third black eye this month._

_Mr. Seon’s voice is confident. “They knew we were in here. If they did call the police, we’ll just pay them a visit. The only thing is… Nara, you-“_

_“I won’t tell anyone,” Hana hears her mother finish, and she’s oozing with adoration. Positively melting at the opportunity to prove herself somewhat useful to the Ssang Kal. “Even if my daught- even if Hana died, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”_

_It’s like a physical blow to Hana’s chest. She chokes, braces herself against the ground, and she’d known for a while that her mother was not the same woman she’d been before, but… A strange image flashes in Hana’s mind. Her gravestone, covered in weeds and unattended in the rain._

Nobody cares if I live or die.

_“Not as dumb as you look, then,” grunts out Mr. Seon. There’s a rustle of fabric as he pulls on his jacket. “Take care of the mess. We’re leaving.”_

_There’s the thump of boots as the Ssang Kal leave the apartment, rattling the floor._

_Hana raises herself to a sitting position on trembling arms just as her mother steps into the living room. She can feel the accursed woman’s appraising stare on her face, her body._

_“You’re not going to school tomorrow,” the woman declares. “Not with those bruises.”_

Because then they’ll call child protective services, _Hana thinks bitterly._

_There are tears seeping out from under her swollen eyelid, and they’re more tears of anger than sadness. Hana’s never felt so defeated before. If she ran away… but no, she can’t escape, the Ssang Kal would track her down, and then- and then-_

The Ssang Kal gets rid of all loose ends one way or another, _whispers the voice of reason in her head._

_Satisfied, Ms. Song vanishes into the kitchen, most likely to call up one of her lovers. Tears spatter onto the floor, and Hana’s vaguely surprised to see them mixed with blood._

_She’s feeling weak. Defeated. She wonders when Father will come back home, and save her from this mess. It feels like forever since she’s talked to him, and she wonders how long it’s actually been. Time has twisted and turned and flipped onto itself and she’s no longer sure if it’s been a year or a month since he’s left._

_A hand on her shoulder. Her stomach drops._

_She jumps, spins, smashes her elbow into Mr. Seon’s face-_

-only to have her elbow burn with pain as it smashed into something _hard._

Genji stumbles back from the couch with a hurried curse, hand clutching at his visor. Hana leaps to her feet, eyes wide, but it’s impossible to see anything in the darkness, except the glow of Genji’s green armor ports.

He’s startled. “Han-“

“I’m so sorry,” Hana sputters, and she’s glad that it’s dark so that Genji can’t see her turn red. “I didn’t know it was you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have… have hit you.” She teeters off, uncertain, bathed in the glow of Genji, the living nightlight.

He regains his balance, his gunmetal form steadying on its feet. “I’d hope not,” says Genji seriously. Hana feels a smile flicker over her face.

It only takes her a moment to adjust to her surroundings. They’re at the motel, and if the digital clock hanging off the wall is anything to go by, it’s an hour past midnight. She’s with Genji. Hana lets out a quiet exhalation of breath.

 _This isn’t home. This is somewhere safe._ She’s still jittery with fear and adrenaline, and it’s not helping that Genji is eyeing her with obvious concern, perhaps debating whether or not to ask her what the elbowing was all about.

It’s been three days since she’d left behind that accursed apartment, having been plucked from the place by the newly reformed Overwatch- or more specifically, by Genji. Now that she’s staying with him, the Ssang Kal can’t hurt her anymore... not during the day, at least. At night she can still feel hear them whispering in the dark.

 The past few days had been like a dream- walking around the beach, exploring the market, trying to get squirrels to feed from their hands with _panko_ breadcrumbs. Life was such a departure from her formerly-nightmarish reality (she recalled, with a wince, the pain in her left eye) that sometimes she’d go to sleep, thinking that maybe when she woke up, she’d be back at the apartment, where an angry Mr. Seon awaited with his knife.

For that very reason, she’d refused to sleep for the first two nights out of fear of breaking this fragile illusion. Genji would have to talk to her, and they’d talk and talk and talk through the night about the most mundane things, each carefully avoiding the details of their pasts, and then she’d wake up nestled against his armored shoulder on the couch, dark circles under her eyes but a warm feeling in her chest.

It hadn’t taken long for Hana to get used to the cyborg. For all his intimidating military fanfare, at heart, Genji was a lighthearted man with a strange addiction to arcade games, albeit somewhat mysterious. They’d spent nearly twenty dollars on one particular _Pac-Man_ machine, eventually filling all top ten score brackets with ‘HANA:)’s and ‘CYBORGNINJADUDE’s.

He was also her first-ever _friend._ The type that she had always read about in books- the ones that would fetch your forgotten umbrella for you, lend you money, or escort you to Overwatch headquarters. If Hana was a boat in a storm, Genji was her anchor, the one who kept her in the present.

She’d even accidentally referred to him as _oppa_ \- the Korean word for ‘older brother’; a term of endearment that, much to her humiliation, Genji had caught her calling him before. She had refused to explain the word’s meaning to the mystified man, going painfully red with embarrassment, on more than one occasion.

Which is why it surprises Hana when his voice comes out more sharp and more serious than it’s ever been before, and all of a sudden it’s like he’s not even the same lighthearted cyborg she’d grown to love like family. _More_ than family.

 “We need to leave, now,” he says, and there’s a definite edge to his modulated voice. Genuine urgency masked under the pretense of calmness.

Hana sticks her head out from the door. Outside, the wind is bitingly cold and humid, carrying the scent of the sea in its grasp. There’s not a soul in sight, and the indigo world is silent, except from the rustling of the trees. It’s the very picture of peace.

“Why?” Hana had been at genuine peace most of their stay here, disturbed only by her restless nightmares in the dark. There’s no obvious threat to their safety, as far as she can see, but Genji apparently thinks different.

“I was patrolling and I ran across… well, Talon’s found out about us.” He says this like it’s a death sentence. Hana just squints at him in confusion.

“Who’s Talon? Someone you know?”

If it _was_ someone that Genji knew, Hana wouldn’t be surprised to have never heard of them before. In the rare moments that Genji spoke of his past (which he never elaborated on, despite Hana’s relentless coaxing), all of the names he spoke of were confusing and unfamiliar. Names like _Gabe, Jesse, Vaswani_ and _Ilios-_ in the end, he always refused to explain who or what or where they were.

But this time, Hana can tell that it’s different from his usually cryptic name-calling. Genji’s already on the move, picking up his impressive array of weapons and what appears to be a duffel bag, before exiting the house. Hana quickly follows suit, pulling on her boots and grabbing her black raincoat. The ocean wind batters her mercilessly; besides her jacket, she’s only really wearing pajamas, which provide little shelter from the cold.

 “Talon is… a terrorist organization. They’ve caused almost half of the really bad stuff that’s in the news, Hana. “ Genji laughs, but it’s a humorless sound. “I keep forgetting that it’s not common knowledge. You’d think with all the press outlets and reporters scrambling to figure out who’s behind it all, someone would’ve figured it out eventually.”

He sounds almost disappointed, as if he thinks that the world’s observational skills aren’t quite up to snuff. Hana snorts, and then remembers the mug that that unknown fan had gifted her, as well as the bright green scarf she’d bought Genji two days previous. She frowns and turns to go back to the house, but Genji catches her by the shoulder.

“We need to leave everything behind,” he says, and he still sounds urgent but his voice has gotten gentler. Hana narrows her eyes- it’s hard to read Genji’s emotions when all she has to go off of is his voice- but she can definitely tell that the man is more worried than he’s letting on.

 _I… trust his judgement._ The thought comes as a bit of a surprise. She shrugs indifferently, pretending that the loss doesn’t bother her at all.

They’re half-walking, half-jogging along the woods instead of just cutting across the beach- Genji hurriedly explains that ‘the trees provide cover’, as if they’re about to be jumped by gun-toting maniacs or something, to which Hana sarcastically responds with a “good advice, James Bond”-

\- when they’re jumped by gun-toting maniacs.

 _RAT-A-TAT-A-RAT-A-TAT!_ The booming sound splits the silent air like Moses with his Red Sea, and Hana jumps and curses and she’s mentally _flailing_ when Genji tugs her behind a thin tree. She presses up against the slimy bark, heart thundering in her ears, the rabbit bracelet tangled around her hand. Genji’s right beside her, and he’s cursing too, but decidedly quieter.

“What’s going on?” demands Hana in a hushed voice. The gunshots have faded away, only to be replaced by an eerie silence. She’s spooked as hell and she knows that questions are just going to get in the way, but facing an unknown threat is so much worse than she’d expected it to be.

“I was fucking right. Talon’s found us.” Genji’s hand flexes, and three green-tinted shurikens appear, gleaming, between his fingers, like a dangerous magic trick. “They’ve always been, ah, _slightly opposed_ to Overwatch. I didn’t-“ He sounds frustrated with himself, which scares Hana more than _anything,_ because Genji always seemed to be so calm and in control.

He lets out a deep breath, as if he’s taking a split second to meditate. His voice comes out deeper, slower. “I didn’t expect them to find our location. I don’t know exactly how they found out about this mission, but- no need to panic. We’ll just be getting on that subway to Seoul a little earlier than planned.” Another huff of breath. “We’re going to go to Juseong,” (Hana recalls the small town they’d played Pac-Man in), “and then we’re driving from there to Busan. Then we’ll go to the subway station and meet our contacts in Seoul.”  He stands, and helps Hana to her feet. “Let’s move.”

This time, they dart in and out of the thin trees as they make their way towards the nearest town. Hana’s jumpier than a cat- she keeps expecting a loud shot to rattle the air again, to maybe even get hit by a bullet- but there’s nothing but oppressive silence until they’re well within sight of the village.

Then there’s a small flare from behind them. Hana notices it, as does Genji, and as she’s turning, she’s half expecting some sort of thug with a flamethrower to be there.

What she’s _not_ expecting is for the motel to be on fire. They’ve put quite a bit of distance between themselves and the house, but the sky is still dark and so it’s easy to make out jumping flames in the distance.

“Well, damn,” says Hana dryly. She marvels at how calm she sounds, when in reality she’s trying not to be overcome by the situation that’s slowly sinking into her skull.

Those three fleeting, carefree days with Genji had vanished as suddenly as they had come. And whatever had remained of them was now being devoured by flames.

Genji’s on the move again, so Hana follows, slower this time. She can’t help but look back every now and then, at the flickering flames slowly dissolving into a single, orange dot on the horizon. “Why the hell did they have to set everything on fire like that?” There’s a healthy dose of anger in her voice.

“They probably searched it through, found no information, and set it ablaze so that we have nothing to return to,” Genji says matter-of-factly. The cyborg ducks into a small warehouse, which smells of damp, rotting wood. Hana wrinkles her nose as she steps in behind him.

“Lucky for us, I have a backup!” He makes jazz hands at the tarp-covered lump that rests on top of the molding hay, his voice unexpectantly triumphant.

Hana places her hands on her hips, breathing heavily; having not done a single sport her entire life, she’s slightly winded from the jog from the motel to the town. She cocks an eyebrow, pretends not to be tired.

“ _Oppa-_ er, Genji- the hell is that?”

“It’s our getaway vehicle, kid.” She makes a protesting noise at the nickname, which he ignores (and Hana imagines a shit-eating grin under that mask.) “You don’t think I stationed us in such a remote place and didn’t secure an escape route, didja?”

He pulls the tarp away with dramatic flourish, and Hana’s half-expecting something ridiculously sci-fi to be there, like a rocket suit or a teleporter.

Underneath the tarp lies a nondescript gray sedan. Hana checks to see if it has warp-drive or something, but no, it’s just standard hover-wheels.

Genji jingles the keys in one hand, and Hana can tell he’s still grinning. “The Hana-mobile. Catchy name, right? Thought of it myself.”

She frowns, arms crossed, at the dingy vehicle.

“Genji-mobile suits it better. It certainly _looks_ something like you,” Hana sniffs with a smirk, and she’s relieved to feel the tension draining away from the room. Genji definitely seems more relaxed now. He’s back to his totally-zen, dramatically-gesturing, bad-jokes-making self. Maybe he’d been caught off-guard at first, but now he has everything under control.

_Everything is under control._

 She takes a deep breath as she straps herself into the leathery depths of the sedan. Genji’s humming the _SpongeBob Squarepants_ theme song as he takes up the driver seat right beside her, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His metallic hand thumbs the drive.

The car starts with a throaty rumble. Hay goes everywhere as it backs out of the hole in the collapsing warehouse. Through the grimy window, Hana spots a couple of figures in the distance, going the same way she and Genji had been walking just a few minutes previous. They’re clothed entirely in shades of gray and black, and they’re each holding something long and thin in their hands. A thrill of fear runs up her back. _Guns. Those are fucking guns._ Which are difficult to get ahold of, what with Korea’s strict gun-control restrictions.

The rattling of gunfire starts, and Genji’s revving up the engine, and Hana’s hands are clenched in her lap as the little seaside town dissolves into a blur around them, the first rays of the blazing sun peeking from the horizon, staining the sky a bloody scarlet.

Bullets clatter off the sedan. Apparently the car’s been reinforced to hold off against the shots. Hana’s holding onto her seatbelt like a lifeline, knuckles slowly going white from the pressure she’s exerting. They’re probably breaking a million speed restrictions, and Genji’s little tune from _SpongeBob Squarepants_ has somehow evolved into ACDC’s _Highway to Hell._

Hana thinks, _Genji has this under control._

“Genji, watch out!” she yelps as he swerves to avoid hitting an old lady carrying a basket of what appears to be fish. He yells out something in Japanese, probably an apology, out the open window. The old lady (whom Hana recognizes to be the one who sold them her bracelet at the market) curses them until she’s out of sight, just another blur in the backdrop.

DVA thinks, _I have this under control._

A bullet cracks off the window, and she throws herself down low into her seat. Genji pushes the gas and they’re soaring to new speeds; Genji whoops and Hana screams.

Somewhere inside of her, a repressed, rebellious fifteen-year-old girl yells,

 _Nobody has ANYTHING under control, dammit, and that’s_ just _the way I like it._

When Genji checks on Hana to see how she’s holding up, he’s mildly concerned, and then mildly amused, to see her crouching in her seat, a terrified smile on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ssang Kal: a prominent Korean gang; name literally means ‘Twin Knives.’  
> Oppa- an endearing term used by women to refer to an older male literally means ‘older brother.’ When men refer to an older male in the same manner, they use the word ‘hyung’.
> 
>  
> 
> Is Hana an adrenaline junkie? Yes. Yes, I suppose she is. Is that a good thing?  
> . . .


	8. carry on, my wayward son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talon finds them pretty quickly. Blood and mayhem ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Graphic violence.

" _Carry on, my wayward son…"_

Hana leans back in her seat, yawning, feet up on the dash.

" _There'll be peace when you are gone…"_

The riffs of a guitar ring loud in the enclosed space of the car. Genji can see that Hana's mouthing the lyrics as they play.

" _Lay your weary head to rest-"_

"You like rock-and-roll?" he asks. Hana glances at him, her startlingly dark eyes narrowing in thought.

"- _don't you cry, no more."_

"I would call it less 'liking rock-and-roll' and more of 'liking guitars and loud drums,'" she says thoughtfully. She blows an upwards puff of air, sending her bangs flying. "But yeah, I tend to listen to rock. Kansas, Led Zeppelin, Blue Oyster Cult, and the like."

Genji stares out the windshield, at the red sun floating in the sky. They'd been driving long enough to watch the entire sunrise from inside the Hana-mobile. The beat of the drums pulse from the radio, rattling his teeth; it wasn't an unpleasant feeling.

"I know that the South Korean pop music is very popular with teenage girls, so I was under the impression that-"

"That I liked K-pop?" she interrupts with a snort. "Naaaaah. Not my thing. Why, what do you listen to?"

Genji grins, raises a hand off the steering wheel, and then performs a peace sign by his eye, striking a feminine pose. "K-pop! I wanted to use this meeting as opportunity to discuss with a fellow fan my favorite girl grou -"

Hana groans and shoves him, causing the car to swerve dangerously. He laughs and grips the steering wheel again.

Hana flops back in her seat dramatically, hand to her head in mock agony. "Agh- I just had- I just had a mental image of you dancing in a pink skirt. My eyes, oh how they burn-"

"-from how indescribably hot I was in this vision of yours," Genji finishes smoothly. Hana snorts with laughter.

"Say, where are those Talon people, anyways?" She stares at the rearview mirror, lowering her hand slowly. "I thought they'd catch up to us by now."

It's Genji's turn to snort. "That would be a pointless endeavor on their part. Most likely the agents from Juseong have long since returned to their base. It is far more practical for the Talon agents undoubtedly stationed in Seoul to try and ambush us from there."

The Korean girl frowns and taps at the dash as if it is a piano. "So… they'll try to block the road off, or… or something?"

He imagines the Hana-mobile crashing through a row of black cars, Mad Max style. "If they wanted to block us off, they'd have to find some way to block all five major highways to Seoul simultaneously, as they do not know which path we will take. Which I can safely say if impossible if you consider how much traffic these highways receive." He glances at Hana. She's still absorbed in the task of drumming her hands on the dash. "No offense intended, but I do not think they prioritize your capture to _that_ extent."

She pops a piece of brightly colored bubblegum in her mouth. Genji had noticed a while ago that she tends to do this whenever she's talking about something potentially stressful, and wonders if he should tell her to stop- it's sort of a bad habit. "Something to be glad of. What do they want me for, anyways?"

The question is phrased carefully. Not accusing, and neither pessimistic nor optimistic. It's a difficult one to answer.

Genji's spent three, no, four- technically five days with Hana. Despite her closed-off nature, he's gotten to know a little about her. Enough to know that she'll put up a brave front and smirk and make some quip about weak Talon agents if he answers her question honestly.

Enough to know that no matter how casually she delivers the question, she's secretly very, very afraid.

Genji thinks of Amelie, Gerard Lacroix's lovely wife, with her blank stare and purple skin. He thinks of Reaper, the mysterious agent that leaves nothing but dried-up husks of corpses in his wake. He thinks of the stench of burning flesh and throat-tearing screams of hundreds of unwilling lab experiments gone wrong in Eritrea, left to die in the explosion caused by Blackwatch intervention. He thinks of how pale Angela's face had gone upon viewing the data they had retrieved from the awful place.

But he speaks of none of this.

Instead, he shrugs. "I suppose they want to deter you from joining-"

"That's bullshit, and we both know it," cuts in Hana, changing tactics in the blink of an eye. She sits on her palms, chews her gum viciously. The young girl is still draped in oversize bunny printpajamas, and yet she's intimidating enough for Genji to avoid her eyes.

"You've been tiptoeing around why they actually want me this entire car ride. Be honest with me from now on, because who knows? I might not take this whole thing seriously if you don't talk straight." A pause." They're going to kill me, right?"

 _Hanzo glares at him from his seat. He wears the look of a_ kumicho, _not an older brother. "Genji, you need to take this seriously." A pause. "Or they will kill you."_

Hana's still insistent. "Please, Genji. The truth."

_The truth._

He quashes the lonesome memory of Hanzo, stares straight ahead at the winding road. Raindrops are pattering gently on the windshield, creating watery tracks down the smooth glass.

The stares of the elders heavy on his back, Hanzo's warning still ringing in his ears. _I don't want to frighten you like that._

Hana is useful to Overwatch, and so she's useful to the adversary- that was just how the world works. She was like money- could be used for anything, really, for good or for evil, and she retained her value no matter how many times she swapped hands. Talon no doubt found the girl via connections to Overwatch, and now they were being a goddamned nuisance by hampering their extraction.

"All I know is that Talon is following us. Anything beyond that is an assumption," he says slowly. "I am not a Talon operative, after all. However, I doubt… I doubt they want to kill you." _They want to do something worse._

He doesn't miss how Hana's shoulders drop a few millimeters in relief.

They leave the Hana-mobile in a parking lot that looked as abandoned as the old school it belonged to. Genji puts the keys on top of the car, intoning that he'll "miss the Hana-mobile." Hana pats the car fondly, retorting that she "hopes that the Genji-mobile will find a loving owner."

The only thing they take with them is the duffel bag Genji had picked up in Juseong, the contents of which Hana still hadn't seen. After years of scrounging for every spare dime in the gutter, it definitely feels a little odd to just leave the sedan there. Of course, if reformed Overwatch has even a fraction of the funding that the old Overwatch had received, then Hana assumes it's probably okay for them to splurge a little.

It only takes a few minutes of walking before they're plunged back into civilization- honking taxis, flashing lights, the general hustle and bustle of Busan's metropolis. Hana keeps her talking to a minimum, instead opting to watch the strangers carefully. The crowd isn't nearly as dense as the one back at the night market, but it's still large enough for her to be wary of being swept away from Genji. The consequences of such a separation would be disastrous, given the circumstances.

 _Genji._ Hana can't shake the feeling that he's trying to shield her from this new world, even though it feels safer to Hana than her old world had ever been. Of course, it's not like Genji would understand this- she'd been very, _very_ careful about not telling him about life with Nara Song, the _Ssang Kal,_ the loan sharks, her mother's boyfriends, _her father-_

"Hana, are you hungry?"

She blinks and looks up. Genji's pointing at a street vendor, who's baking _boongobahng-_ a fried, crispy goldfish-shaped bread stuffed with sweet red bean paste. The smell is absolutely heavenly, and the warmth radiating from the stand feels like a blanket on her icy skin.

"Yeah!" she cheers, pretending to be perfectly content. Genji pays a couple _won_ to the vendor, who was another old lady, though considerably cheerier than the jewelry vendor (she patted Genji's hand, called him a polite young man, and gave them an extra _boongobang;_ Genji reckoned that she must've been blind) and Hana's soon sinking her teeth into the crispy bread.

"Shouldn't we be hiding or something?" she asks as she chews, scrunching up her nose. She feels more like she's on another casual trip to the night market, not on the run from international terrorists.

Genji snorts. "And then what, get jumped? Crowds are much safer than places where you are alone. It's harder for them to spot us, and harder for them to attack."

Hana thinks about this for a moment. It _would_ be more difficult to navigate through so much people. And…

"The crowd acts as a shield?" she guesses aloud. Genji pauses to turn and look at her. She stares back, mindful of how his body language has shifted from casual to grim.

"You're not entirely incorrect," he says slowly. "But you can't underestimate… well, just make sure you're careful. Talon's not above sacrificing a few pawns to capture the queen."

It takes a moment for Hana to understand the metaphor. "Pawns meaning the civilians, and queen meaning…?"

"Meaning you." Genji looks ahead and begins to move. "You might not know it yet, but you're very important in the grand scheme of things."

 _The grand scheme of things_. How cliché. A giggle escapes from her throat, and Genji turns, amused-

A woman in a red jacket slams into his side; he grunts from the impact and Hana leaps back, startled, dropping her goldfish bread. The lady's a middle-aged woman wearing a beige scarf and leather boots. It's such a departure from the black-outfitted Talon agents that had besieged their motel-

But it makes sense, because _why the fuck_ would Talon agents dress like Talon agents in a crowded area? Hana'd been looking out for black and gray and strange masks this entire time, which was so damned stupid-she mentally berates herself as Genji and the woman tussle on the ground, the crowd stepping away from them in a seething circle of hands and limbs and whispers, and then the woman pulls out a _gun._

The screams are sudden and earsplitting; people scramble away from the scene like a crazed herd of animals ( _which they are,_ DVA thinks) while Hana pushes forward, through the surge of people, and she's not scared of them this time- she's just scared for Genji-

The gunshot rings and then the yelling becomes impossibly louder. Hana breaks free and sees the woman drop to the muddy ground, a bright red smile across her throat, right by the smoking hole in the cement. White plates of Genji's sleek armor are covered in flecks of crimson, and he's holding one of his shurikens- she's staring still, uncomprehending, until she feels his hand close around her wrist.

" _The police are coming. We need to leave, now."_

It's not Genji's words that snap her out of it. It's his voice. The fact that it's _him._ Her breathing quickens and she begins to move.

They run towards a disconcertingly quiet alley, lined with closed shops and collapsed trash cans. Hana feels a surge of adrenaline and picks up the pace, legs a blur, but she's not tired and her legs aren't sore anymore. She's going numb, she can't feel anything- not her body, her limbs, or the hot, sticky liquid all over Genji's hand.

Sirens wail over the chaos in the distance. One of Hana's boots fall off and she's left hobbling after Genji, thin socks tearing on the sharp gravel that pokes mercilessly at the soles of her feet. Without pausing, Genji scoops Hana up in both arms; she lets out a squeak of surprise that he ignores.

Now that she can't hear the flapping of her own feet, she realizes that Genji's rapid footsteps make no sound at all. She swallows, and all she wants is to ask _did you kill that lady?_ because even if it were obvious that he had, she just can't wrap her head around it-

 _She was going to shoot Genji._ As they round the corner, Hana buries away the strange, irrational guilt that she feels creep up in her heart. _She deserved it._

Genji lurches to a stop. Hana's hands clench over his shoulders involuntarily.

Facing them is a row of… not Talon agents, but normal people. They're dressed in fluffy winter coats, leggings, jeans, hoodies, t-shirts- a wide variety of average clothing.

They're also armed with guns. There isn't an ounce of hesitation on any of their faces when they begin to fire.

Hana's dropped suddenly, and Genji's arm is raised in the blink of an eye, the duffel bag falling to the ground. He has his sword, and with a spattering of sparks, the blade flashes up and down in a green blur- several of the people crumple to the ground, and there's no sudden spray of blood to indicate that they're dead- just a silent, red stain slowly creeping across blouses and jackets and _Mickey Mouse_ logos.

 _He deflected the bullets,_ Hana realizes slowly. _With. His. Fucking. Sword._

The remaining civilians- ( _no, they're with Talon, they're obviously with Talon, DVA thinks)_ \- stop firing, the barest trace of confusion flickering over their faces. There's a clatter as they discard semiautomatic weapons in favor of smaller guns that they unclip from their belts. Hana scrambles backwards, and terror is rising in her throat again. She's freezing up-

But Genji's not.

His sword's a blur, and then his entire form disappears in wavy green light. The cyborg is almost _lazy_ as he cuts down three more agents, his katana a ribbon of silver silk, dodging their bullets with ease. His arms snap up and hits an agent; they go flying with a bend in their neck as one of the other agents lose control and begin to yell, terror contorting his face. The shots ring loud in Hana's ears, and she's hit with the realization that silly Genji-

-the one that bought her bracelets and sweets, made pancakes for breakfast, drew little pink stripes on her face that one time when she was asleep, the one that helped braid her hair on Thursday-

-is a _killing machine,_ built to destroy.

 _But also to preserve,_ whispers DVA.

Her senses return. Hana stands up, because while Genji's holding them off, she should leave-

An arm snaps around Hana's neck, pulling her roughly into something solid and black. She looks up- the formidable shadow of a Talon mask is above her. The arm pulls in more and she chokes, flails, but she might as well be standing still because his grip is like iron.

Genji turns while finishing off the last agent, who's scream is cut off in a horrendous gurgle. The alley is a mess of dark red and large pieces of… _meat, Hana thinks vaguely…_ and Genji himself looks like something out of a nightmare. His sleek, gunmetal form looks to have been splashed with red paint, and his green ports glow in the shadows.

_Genji, the living nightlight. He scares away the things I am afraid of._

His katana is still brandished when he takes a step forward, in their direction. Something cold buries itself into Hana's hair, into the soft area right behind her ear. _Click._

"Drop the katana," says the agent, voice deep and distorted. Genji draws himself up, but remains silent.

Hana's prayer is fervent, insistent. _Genji has this under control. Everything is under control. Everything is under control. Everything is-_

Genji places the weapon on the ground reverently, never taking an eye off of the agent. Hana's heart drops like a stone.

"No," she croaks. There's an almost imperceptible catch in her voice. "It's okay. I'm going to die anyway."

And she's telling the truth. It _is_ okay. Everything is okay, because Hana's been prepared to die since the first day her mother had drowned herself in alcohol. She's been prepared to die since the first day the Ssang Kal had walked in on her life. She's been prepared to die since the first day she had lost consciousness and woken up in the closet, listening, paralyzed, to Mr. Seon reassuring the police that there was _no girl named Hana living here, you hear me?_

The time she spent with Genji was brief, and she'd known deep in her heart that it had to end sometime. She would have to return to reality eventually-

The rain is cold on her skin. It drips from Genji's armor and pools at his feet, tinted red. She focuses on the glittering drops of water rolling off his shoulders.

The Talon agent takes a step back. And then another. He's speaking into something, a microphone maybe.

" _I've secured the girl unharmed. Grid B sector F36, there's the cyborg here, too. No, no- it was a fucking massacre, we need more troops- don't bother to bring the heavies, he'll just deflect all the shit you throw at him_ -"

He drones on. Hana tries to listen, and notices that the sirens have stopped. _I wonder if the police are all dead, too._

Genji's still kneeling on the ground, the sword lying near his feet. Rain trickles down his armor in rivulets of blue. Hana mouths _Just go._

He tilts his head quizzically.

 _Please,_ Hana begs silently. There are tears burning in her eyes now, and she can't seem to figure out why. Was she mourning her own life, or Genji's? Was she just scared? Perhaps she was just losing her mind.

" _I'll meet the sect there… yeah, the cyborg is coming with me too. Fucking hell, what a mess."_ The agent lowers his hand from his mic, points at Genji. " _You. Come with me, or the girl dies."_

"Don't," she whispers, ignoring the cuff to her head and the growled _"Shut up."_ She didn't deserve Genji. That much had been obvious from the very beginning. If he were to get hurt because of her, she'd-

Hana almost has a heart attack as Genji suddenly lunges, his katana in-hand so fast that she can't tell when he had picked it up. He's just a ribbon of green in the red-stained world again, flashing forward, so fast that it _just might work-_

The cold metal pressed to Hana's head disappears and Hana's staring down the barrel of a gun, pointed straight at Genji, and for a wild moment it feels like she's the one pulling the trigger as the gloved finger presses down.

The gunshot is impossibly loud, right by Hana's ear. She screams, she squeezes her eyes, shuts out the world. Something hot and liquid splashes on Hana's shoulder; the Talon agent is yelling profanities at the top of his lungs. The ground is twisting and turning, she ought to be scared but all her shell-shocked mind can process is that _Genji's dead, Genji's dead, Genji's dead, Genji's dead, Genji's dead, Oppa-_

 _-is most definitely dead, but the gun's not to your head anymore,_ hisses DVA.

She's still screaming when she twists in the agent's grip and pushes against him with all her might. He yells as he tips over, crashing to the ground with Hana on top of him. There's a helmet over his face, glistening in the rain, and glowing red lights where his eyes should be. He swings his arms up at her, then cries out in pain as his left arm flops uselessly at his side. Ivory bone gleams from the exposed wound at his shoulder; Genji's last mark on the world.

The agent looks stupid pinned underneath Hana, he really does- just your classic video game lowlife, the minion that just so happened to kill a major character.

There's blood roaring in her ears as Hana grabs his head and then _smashes_ it against the curb.

He screams, and Hana quivers in fear and disgust but DVA lets out a cry of rage. She brings his head down again- again- again- the helmet splinters in her grasp, shards of plastic dig into her palms but she's okay with it, really, because unlike Genji she was prepared to _die-_

" _It's not fair!"_ she screams. _Thud, thud, thud._ Hot drops of red rain fleck across her pajamas, her face, her shirt. Her fingers are burning now, blistering from the impact. The hair's plastered to her face, the unfeeling rain rolls down her back. She's hardly aware of what's coming from her mouth, but it rips from her throat anyways. " _It's not fair! It's not fair!"_

The smell of iron is thick in air. This wasn't a video game- it was _nothing_ like a video game, because the noises, the rush of emotions, the scent of blood- there was no strategy, no plan of attack, no rhyme nor reason to any of it because it was all so _visceral_ -

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._

Hana keeps going until the agent's hands aren't scrabbling for her neck anymore.

His head falls from limp fingers, hits the curb with a sickening squelch. At least, what's left of it. She made a goddamned mess of him, there's- there's stuff all over the place. Bile rises in her throat; she scrambles off of the agent's body and throws up the rest of the goldfish bread onto the sidewalk.

"…Hana?"

The modulated voice is tentative. Unsteady. It stutters and beeps. Hana wipes her mouth with a shaking hand, then crawls over to Genji, who lies on his back on the cold pavement, hoping for a miracle- maybe he wasn't shot at all, maybe he's okay-

There's blood oozing from his torso. The bullet had punched clean through the armor on his chest. She stares and stares and stares.

He speaks slowly, carefully. "Hana, what-"

"I thought you were _dead,_ you FUCKING ingrate," she curses, and her voice is so brittle that it breaks near the end. She wipes the moisture from her face, hopes that it's just rain, not tears. Her body is physically sagging in relief, and her heart is so light that it has disappeared. She must look a mess right now, drenched in rain and blood and trying so _hard_ not to cry. "I- you-"

"I fell unconscious when I was shot. Fortunately, my body's nanites began to do some repair as I was unconscious." He sounds so unconcerned, as if he's simply reading a status report. Hana feels sick.

Genji tries to raise himself on one elbow, wincing. "Are you okay? What happened? You're covered in bl-"

" _Stop asking me if I'm okay,"_ Hana hisses, and defying all logic, she's suddenly infuriated at Genji, the two-time savior of her life. Seething at the fact that even now, he refuses to- to show proper concern for himself. He stares at her, clearly befuddled with her response, and hell, so is she. What sort of sick bastard got angry at someone who got hurt saving their life?

She tries to stand up, dragging his arm with her. Genji curses in loud Japanese, presses his hand to the wound.

The blood that runs down his armor isn't black, like oil, or green, like his lights. It's as red as everyone else's. What had she expected? He was only human, after all.

"Are you fine with walking?" she asks. Genji is swaying dangerously on his feet.

"Not for a long distance. Moving will- moving will definitely hamper my regeneration," he replies. "I'm not sure if my nanites will be able to... handle this amount of… damage.

She squints at him. "Nanites?"

"From Angela," he responds, as if that explains everything. And then, after a moment: "Help cells repair themselves, but only to a certain extent. Also, Hana, why are you covered in-"

"The blood isn't mine, _michin nom._ Lean against me," she commands. Her tone leaves no room for argument.

Genji uncertainly puts his weight on hers as she pulls his arm over her shoulders, dragging the duffel bag he had brought up with him. He's far lighter than Hana had expected- she'd seen how high he could jump, it was only natural- and so she puts on her brave face and begins to move forward. Her heart hasn't stopped hammering yet, and it throbs like the beat of the drums.

_I can do this. I have this under control._

They take one step. Then another. From how close they are, Hana can feel the rise and fall of Genji's sides, how labored the quiet, metallic rasping of his breathing is. All of those green lights studded into his armor flicker every once in a while.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Hana asks, voice calm and steady, trying to keep his attention focused on the present. Another step. She focuses on the door that lies all ajar near the end of the alley. _It's so far away._

"He obviously… obviously wouldn't shoot you first… shoot the immediate threat," says Genji haltingly. His body seems to get heavier with every passing moment.

 _Okay, forget calm and steady._ "So you knew he was going to shoot you," Hana says flatly, and something inside her dies at the thought of what could've happened.

Another three steps.

"I am fast… enough to move any vital organs out of… way of, bullet," he says. There's a strain in his voice Hana's never heard before. She spares a glance downwards; the armor around his wound is slick with red.

" _So you knew he was going to shoot you,_ " Hana repeats, pressing down that strange flare of anger that threatens to spill out. They're making progress faster now, they're halfway there. Hana doesn't weigh more than one hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, she can't keep dragging the full-grown man for much longer. Her shoulders burn, body aches- _just- just a little longer…_

"Talon is… Talon is not above sacrificing… few pawns to capture… the queen," Genji slurs. He sounds happy, as if he's drugged out, when he chuckles mechanically. "And. And neither am I."

"I'm not a queen, and you're not just a pawn, _Oppa._ " _Closer. Closer. Just a few more steps._ It's not Hana's imagination, Genji is definitely getting weightier, as if he's not up to supporting himself anymore. She heaves him forward, eyes watering from the burn. The darkness of whatever room the door opens to gapes directly ahead. "Why would you say something like that?"

No response. Hana pauses, turns to look at him. His mask flickers.

"Genji?" she prompts.

They're only three steps from the door when he collapses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hella sick right now so I wasn't sure if I was going to write anything this week, but all of your wonderful comments really motivated me. So here it is, the next chapter. I know you all hate me for leaving you on a cliffhanger, but this chapter dragged two thousand words over how long I originally thought it was going to be (at first I thought Genji was going to get shot, and I'd just leave it at that!), and I had to end it somehow…
> 
> Translation Notes:  
> Oppa- a term of endearment basically meaning 'older brother'.
> 
> Boongobahng- literally translates to 'goldfish bread'. It's a typical Korean street food that is fried bread stuffed with sweet red bean paste. The bread is made by pouring batter into a fish-shaped mold, and then cooked until golden-brown, giving it its name.


	9. don't stay here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji realizes something.

_“Anija, please,” complains Genji. “Think of it as a birthday gift. I turn sixteen tomorrow, have you forgotten?”_

_Fifteen-year-old Genji frowns at Hanzo Shimada. Eighteen-year-old Hanzo Shimada frowns right back._

_“You think of going to festivals while our father is not well?” Hanzo raises the cup of tea to his lips, takes a long drink. His tone isn’t accusatory, merely exasperated. Genji reckons that he may have a chance._

_“It’ll be fun, I swear,” he insists. “Besides, Father gets sick all the time. And he always gets better, in the end.” He shifts slightly; the jeans that he’s wearing are a little too tight to kneel comfortably in. “If you let me go to the festival, I won’t throw a huge party like I usually do. Okay?”_

_In sharp contrast to Genji’s decidedly casual wear, Hanzo is outfitted in a new kimono, all sharp angles and creases. The boy’s eyes flick unapprovingly from Genji’s_ Nirvana _t-shirt to the spikes of his green hair._

_“Fun,” he articulates dryly, as if he’s never spoken the word before. “You think of having ‘fun’ while you should be currying favor with the elders. You realize how heavily they dislike your more recent… actions?”_

_“‘My actions’? My, my, what crime have I committed?” Genji crosses his arms, resentment bubbling behind his (sort of) calm exterior. “I’ve done nothing but act my age. Going to the festival, it’s- it’s completely normal for me. For_ us.”

_“To act your age would be to listen to Uncle Takeshi when he speaks, to show up during the meetings, and to help run the Shimada clan!” snaps Hanzo, temper flaring. He sets down his cup of tea brusquely, which was, if he were any other boy, akin to flipping a table. “As you have stated, you turn sixteen tomorrow. You are not a child anymore.”_

_He’s had enough. “Yes, I will turn sixteen, and I_ am _a child!” yells Genji. He swipes at the table, sending the cup of tea flying. Hanzo’s gaze remains unflinching as it shatters on the floor, spraying them both with hot flecks of water. “And maybe you’re not a child, not anymore- but you’re still my older brother. No, wait-”_

_Genji stands abruptly, glares down at Hanzo. “You’re not my older brother anymore, are you? You’ve become Shimada-dono, head of the Shimada clan, while I have remained as Genji.”_

_He injects as much sarcasm into the sentence as he can, blindly trying (and failing) to tear down Hanzo’s calm expression- to hurt him, to make him feel guilt, remorse, anger,_ anything-

_“I am your older brother,” Hanzo responds coldly. “Denounce me if you wish. However, that will never change.”_

_“Then_ act _like one, for once,” seethes Genji. It’s suddenly painful to think about the past, when he could prance around with Hanzo like a fool and nobody would give a damn. “You were- you never-“_

 _Frustration overtakes Genji’s speech, and he’s left fumbling for words that cannot express how he feels. A vile feeling. As childish as Hanzo would deem it to be, all Genji really wants is to have just one more day with him where they wouldn’t have to worry about the clan, or the enemy_ yakuza, _or the inheritance-_

_His voice steadies, breathing evens. “Please, anija. Go to the festival with me tomorrow.” For tomorrow was Children’s Day._

_Of course, he already knows the answer. He already knows the reaction. He’s seen it a hundred times before- Hanzo’s gaze will flicker downwards as he takes another sip of tea, brush his long hair away from his face as he looks up, wearing a carefully measured expression equal parts tired and disapproving. His lips will part slowly to form the shape ‘no’, but Genji won’t be listening-_

_“Genji,” he says, and he’s so_ intense _. Genji jerks up, his clenching hands freezing at his sides._

_“H-Hai?”_

_“_ Genji,” _Hanzo presses on, louder this time. His voice- his eyes- they seem imploring._

“Anija?” _asks Genji uncertainly._

_Hanzo stands and reaches over the table. Clasps Genji’s hand in his own. Genji doesn’t dare move, nor breathe. There’s a warmth in his palm that he hasn’t felt in years-_

“GENJI! Wake up!”

Genji blinks again.

There’s a small girl standing at his side, dressed in waterlogged bunny-print pajamas, the fabric once pastel pink but now stained an ugly maroon. He’s struck by how tired the girl looks as she reaches up to brush a dark lock of hair out of her face, lips are pulled tight with worry. She looks almost angry.

There’s still an oddly familiar weight in his palm. He looks down to see the girl’s hand holding onto his own, like a lifeline. It’s an oddly sweet gesture, even given the fact that her hand and arm is streaked with still-drying blood up to the elbow.

“Genji, are you up?” Hana’s usually sarcastic voice is tentative. Concerned. Genji’s heart very nearly breaks.

“I’m awake,” he rasps, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. Her face crumples with relief.

“ _Babo._ Don’t you dare go scaring me like that again,” she says, and Genji can tell how hard she’s trying to sound mad at him as she lets go of his hand, turning to shuffle through the duffel bag, which lies open at his side.

He reflexively tries to sit up, and then winces as pain shoots through his body like a spear. Hana scrambles to keep him down, shaking her head. “You’re still hurt. Rest while you can.”

Genji vaguely recalls getting shot- the air being punched out of his lungs, and then the burst of pain. He remembers feeling like he was dying, _knowing_ that he was dying as Hana dragged him off into nothingness. Forgetting that he was cyborg Genji and for a moment feeling completely, deathly human.

He shakes the unsettling feeing away- he doesn’t have the time to dwell on such thoughts. Neither of them do. “It doesn’t matter if I’m hurt. We need to get moving.”

He looks around them. There’s very little light in the room, though he can still make out the details of the place with his night vision optics. There’s a large row of crates haphazardly pushed to one side of the room, and burlap sacks filled with something loose and grainy scattered around them- sand, or more likely, rice. Genji himself is lying on top of two crates.

“I think it’s a storage room of some sort,” says Hana aloud. “We’ve been here for… half an hour? Something like that.” She tilts her head slightly, chewing aggressively on her gum. “What’s an _anija?_ ”

_What?_

“Where did you hear that word?” he asks slowly. Hana’s staring intently at him. There’s flecks of a dark substance covering the right side of her face, scattering partially over her nose. _Blood._

“You said that your body repairs itself, right? So I was going to just let you sleep. But then you started to, uh, fidget a lot. I thought you were having a bad dream,” she says quietly. “So I was trying to wake you up, because it was kind of… scary. And just before you woke up, that’s what you said.”

He watches her dig a bottle of water out of the duffel bag and take a long drink, as if to avoid looking at him. The body language is clear: _you don’t have to tell me, if it’s a private matter._

Now that she says it, Genji vaguely remembers saying the word out loud. He stares up at the ceiling, at the shadowed rafters. There isn’t any point in hiding it, is there?

“ _Anija_ means ‘brother’,” he explains. Hana spits water all over the duffel bag.

After a bout of coughing, she runs her sleeve across her mouth and chokes out a _“What?”_

He suppresses a chuckle. “What, is this so surprising?”

“Well, yeah! You have a _brother?_ ” Hana props her elbows up on the crates, stares at Genji, utterly fascinated. “I can’t imagine another Genji running around. What’s he like?”

 _Hanzo._ Genji can almost see him, sitting in that lonesome room at Hanamura all by himself. Frowning over some political document that was as important as it was boring to read. He was nothing like ‘another Genji’.

 “He was older than me, and much more serious. Always lecturing me- _do this, do that, don’t do this, don’t do that!_ I’m afraid that I used to cause a lot of trouble for him as a child.” A strange, foolish grin spreads across his face, behind his mask. “But he was still a great man.”

Hana’s face softens. “’Was’, as in past tense?”

“’Was’, as in past tense,” Genji confirms.

She drops her head a little. “Aw, Genji. I’m really sorry.”

“No need to be.” He shifts, just slightly. Pain bursts in his upper torso like miniature fireworks. For a moment, he is thankful that his visor so effectively masks his grimace of pain.

Unaware of his struggle, Hana stares down at her bracelet. “Still, having an older brother is nice.” She pauses, her cheeks flushing. “ _Sounds_ nice, I mean. What was your brother’s na-“

There’s a loud burst of sound from below Genji. Hana flies back with a surprised squawk. He tilts his head to look over the edge of the crates, at the transceiver lying on the ground.

_Dee-dee-dee. Dee-dee-dee._

“What _is_ that?” demands Hana, as she scrambles to pick it up. “How do I turn it off?”

“Press the red button,” yawns Genji. The constant buzzing of pain around his injury burns and writhes; he wonders how he will be able to move around. No… he won’t really be able to move around, will he?

And Talon would grow suspicious- or possibly already _was_ suspicious at their absence.

Of course, Genji presumes, from the losses Talon had suffered in their little fight, as well as the lack of incoming status reports from the agent that had apprehended Hana, Talon would be far too cautious to immediately send in more soldiers. Not to mention that the place was probably crawling with police.

That would buy them time.

_But not enough time._

Genji sucks in an experimental breath- and almost passes out from the pain, as white spots cloud his vison like floating dandelion seeds. He leans back against a rice sack, glad that Hana is too busy inspecting the transceiver to be paying attention to him.

In that split second, he makes his decision.

“- _ji? Where are you, love? We haven’t heard from you in ages!”_

Hana’s eyes grow round as marbles, and she drops the transceiver as if it is radioactive. Relief fills Genji as he hears the familiar, accented voice of Tracer piping from the device. Almost as if she were actually in the room.

“Lena,” he breathes, grinning a little from Hana’s reaction. Obviously she recognizes the woman’s voice, who was, after all, one of the most famous faces of Overwatch. It was easy to forget Oxton’s fame after living with her for over a year.

Genji tries to sit up, and immediately regrets it. _Pain. So much pain to move._ He forges on, wheezing slightly, determined to get his message across:

“The extraction has been compromised. Hana will continue on to Seoul on her own.”

At this, Hana whips her head around to stare at Genji. He weakly performs a peace sign by his eye.

“ _WHAT?”_ she and Lena exclaim, together. There’s a brief moment of confusion as Lena goes, “ _Wait, Genji, who’s that with you?”_ while Hana stands up, stares down at Genji, and shouts, “Are you insane?”

“Yes,” he jokes. And then- “No, I mean- I’m being serious.” He turns his head towards the transceiver, which lies blinking red on the dusty ground, ignoring the anger and shock playing across the girl’s face.

 “Lena, I’ve been shot. Only once, do not worry,” he hastily amends as Lena makes appalled noises on the other side of the transceiver. “N-nothing that my nanites cannot handle.” _Ah, damn. I stammered. “_ Unfortunately, they do slow me down quite… quite a bit. I’m afraid that staying with Hana will only endanger her.”

“Are you certain of that?” There’s an unbelieving tension to Lena’s voice. After all, Lena was an intensely emotional person, always the first one to volunteer on rescue missions. Knowingly leaving Genji behind must crush her. But Genji trusts her, as an agent, to understand that this is the only way.

But Hana’s not an agent. She’s a kid, and she’s scared.

“Genji, please,” she says, and her voice is making his heart crumple into a little ball of cold, unfeeling metal. He tries his best to ignore her as he swipes the transceiver off the floor, that burning feeling in his chest flaring up in sync with his breathing.

“If we want any chance of Hana making it to Seoul, she needs to stay away from me.” He should feel afraid, shouldn’t he? It’s strange, how he feels so comfortably numb. _Just do what is right. Do what is logical._ “I will rendezvous to Overwatch… somehow,” _maybe,_ “but in the meantime send as many agents as you can spare to Seoul. Prepare to extract Hana Song from there.”

There’s still that indomitable surge of optimism in Lena’s voice as she begins to speak in earnest: “But, Gen-“

“That’s the end of my status report.” Genji presses the red button on the transceiver firmly, then tosses it at Hana. She catches the object but doesn’t look away from him.

“Genji. What. The. _Fuck,_ ” she spits, but Genji doesn’t feel bad about making Hana upset this time. Not at all.

“Either we both die, or you go alone,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady, because God did speaking hurt his chest. Hana opens her mouth again, that crease between her eyebrows deepening, but he cuts her off, because this was important and Hana _had_ to know that.

“ _Hana._ Think about what you are about to say. Think about it _carefully._ ”

She shuts her mouth. Opens it. Shuts it again. She’s blinking rapidly, and Genji can tell that her emotions and her logic are completely at odds. He understands the feeling, because it’s not like he’s perfectly comfortable with sending a young girl off into the city, all alone and hounded by Talon agents.

But Genji’s confident that her logic will prevail, in the end-

“I’d rather we both die,” she whispers, fingers curling around her bracelet.

With a pang, the cyborg wonders how many times Hana Song has broken his heart in the short time that he has known her.

There is a moment of silence as Hana bites her lip, lashes fluttering as she attempted to hold back tears. The mask she always wore was crumbling away, and for the first time Genji sees the vulnerable child that was Hana Song.

“You’re assuming that I will die without you,” he says, gently. “But I won’t. I can hide.” He raises himself up into a sitting position, ignores the screaming pain in his chest. “You can’t, though. You need to make it to Overwatch as quickly as you can. It will be safe with them.”

“I can’t make it all the way to Seoul all on my own,” mumbles Hana. Her fingers clench around the rabbit bracelet. “All I’ve done is play StarCraft my entire life. That’s why you guys recruited me, right? To fly around in a machine, be the gamer that I am. I can’t do jack shit without a fancy weapon, or somebody else to-“

“If you really believe that to be true, then you severely underestimate yourself,” interrupts Genji. She cannot remind him of his younger self any more in this moment- confused, afraid, in pain, with nobody and nothing to stand with. That vile, frustrating feeling of disconnection- how could he possibly inspire her, make her braver, more confident? How-

The dragon stirs inside of him. He flinches in surprise as it speaks- they rarely attempted to influence his decisions, instead opting to let him choose his own path. Hana squints at him as he listens. “Genji, are you feeling okay?”

The sentiment the great green dragon voices is simple. Almost _too_ simple.

_Just tell the girl how you feel._

 “Hana Song,” he begins, ignoring her question, ignoring the twinge of pain in his chest, taking one of her pale, cold hands in his own robotic one. Her dark eyes flicker up to meet his. Like twin abysses.

His words come out plain and honest. “You are one of the bravest people that I have ever met. And I have met a lot of brave people.” He cannot help but think of Hana’s mother, of the gangster, of the small apartment, of the lingering smell of booze. She recoils slightly, but he holds on steadfastly.

“You have been able to cope with things that most people have never had to face, and never will.” _From an abusive household and missing family members, all the way to what remains unspoken, of what had happened to you when Mr. Seon came around I was not there to fend him off, of what happened to the Talon agent that had shot me._  “They may have been difficult, but in the end, you overcame them, and here you stand.” He scans her face, unblinking. She’s silent, face impassive as a statue. “Still alive.”

“But-“ she starts, expression contorting in confusion, but Genji silences her with a raised finger.

“I think of you as,” and here he chokes a little, because it was the truth and the truth _hurt_ , “as a little sister.”

 He’s aware that these may not be motivational words- perhaps they are completely wasted on Hana, someone who knows nothing about him or his past life. But he _has_ to get the thought across- the silly, foolish thought that had been festering in the back of his mind from day one- _that I can be Hanzo, and you can be Genji, and we can turn the tragedy upside-down, make up a happy ending to the story together._

There’s a glimmer of surprise in Hana’s eyes as he continues. “My- my older brother was not always the kindest to me. He was not always very understanding. But his presence always made me feel stronger, and more assured of myself.”

_The court ladies giggle and point. “See, see! The wolf and the sparrow walk together. The two little lords!”_

_Genji puffs up in pride, links his arm around Hanzo’s, and though he tries to pull away Genji can see the briefest smile pass over the boy’s face._

Genji’s voice grows steadier. “From the day I first met you, I was hoping I could influence you the same way. Be the older brother that my brother was not allowed to be.” _Falling cherry blossoms, blood in the rain. Pain roaring in his chest-_

“As you know, he is not with me anymore. And so, if I have done my job correctly- if I have indeed acted as a proper older brother… then I can safely say that I share the same pain you feel now, because I feel his absence each and every day.”

The impassive façade is falling away. From both of them.

She’s crying. He’s never seen her cry before. It’s a most peculiar feeling as he tries to piece the two Hanas that he knows together into a broken puzzle that doesn’t quite fit- laughing, sarcastic Hana, and the Hana that was silently sobbing in front of him now.

“I have survived,” he says softly, gently, “without my brother. And you are _so_ much stronger than I.” He clasps his other hand on top of Hana’s, as if in prayer. “So I am confident- I _know-_ that like me, you will be just fine. You-“

He’s not quite prepared for Hana to launch herself at him, to wrap her arms around his neck, but the flare of pain in his chest from the sudden movement is nothing compared to the warmth the hug gives him.

“I’m scared,” Hana whispers, burying her face into Genji’s shoulder, and the words sound less like a statement and more like a confession. “We’re going to be- in a lot more fights-“

And there it was. Hana’s cleverly woven mask of indifference, finally falling to pieces. Genji sighs. “I know.”

“Alone,” she concludes, voice slightly muffled. Genji shakes his head, pats her back, closes his eyes. Shuts out the world with a curtain of black, until the only people left were him and Hana.

_Hanzo grins, his nose cherry-red in the snow. He’s eight, and Genji is five. “Just you and me, now, brother!”_

“No, you’re not. The same people that helped me when I thought I was alone will be helping you.” He thinks of Tracer, the bubbly, laughing woman with the severe British accent. “You will take the transceiver. Overwatch may not physically be with you, but they will still be there to guide-“

Hana loosens her grip, draws back to glare at Genji, tear-stained cheeks and all, and all of a sudden, she has regained all of her spirit and twice the amount of fire.

“I don’t mean _me,_ you fuck! _You’re_ going to be alone!”

He considers this.

“I suppose I am.” He sounds remarkably calm, though he knows that what he’s doing is dangerous. He’s had worse injuries before- much worse- but during those times, he had the rest of Blackwatch to back him up, as well as his Angela. _This time, I will truly be on his own._

_“Don’t you ever push it this far again,” scolds Angela, radiant even under all those cuts and bruises. Genji laughs and she shakes her head, ever the mother hen. “I’m not even going with you to Korea. Will you be okay?”_

“Will you be okay?” The words are desperate. Searching. Hana’s looking to reassure herself, not him, but Genji’s perfectly fine with that.

“I will be just fine,” he promises, though his skin prickles with guilt at the white lie. “What was it that you Koreans do again?” He clenches his hand, delivers a little fist-pump into the cold air. “ _Haiting!”_

A small smile appears on Hana’s face. “ _Haiting,”_ she echoes sadly, also fist-pumping. And then: “Where’d you learn that from? I thought you’ve only been in Korea for a week.”

“I watch this girl group called K-PINK on MeTube. They do that every time they end a music vid-“

Hana snorts with laughter. “You crazy fucker.” She mock-punches Genji’s shoulder. It stings his injury a little, but he’s too busy laughing with her to notice.

“Watch your language, Hana! You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Hana mock-pouts, kicks her legs back from beside Genji. “I _bite_ my mother with this mouth. One time, I bit her pinkie so hard that it broke-“

Genji can’t tell if she’s being serious or not, which he supposes is the truly scary part.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take long for the exhausted Hana to fall asleep, curled up over a couple of storage crates. Her sides rise and fall ever so slightly to the telltale whisper of her breathing; Genji is stricken by how peaceful she looks when she is fast asleep. Completely relaxed, all traces of stress wiped from her face.

He rises painfully from his place on the crates, staggering as he regains his balance. Takes the quilt from the duffel bag, tucks it over the little girl. Steam wafts from his ventilation ports; the air is freezing and humid from the nearby ocean, and he’s afraid she will catch a cold.

She shifts at the sudden warmth and mumbles something in incomprehensible Korean, he catches that elusive word _oppa_ again, though he’s still not certain what it means. He smiles and turns off his night vision specs, so that his lights flicker off and Hana can sleep in peace.

Leaving Genji alone with his thoughts. He beholds the girl passed out in front of him.

Hana Song. Just another girl. A girl that was exceptional in the field of gaming, sure. Someone who had been just another name on the mission board, less than a week ago.

Now? Now he’d noticed all of the little intricacies in her behavior- how she crinkles her nose and squints at something that confuses her, how she chews gum to cope with her stress, how she tangles her hand in that bracelet he’d gotten her when she thinks something terrible is about to happen.

It feels like they are _family._ He thinks, and it is a terrible thought, that Hanzo had once felt this way about him. Possibly even when the man had brought down his sword, straight through Genji’s body.

He thinks, and it is a terrible thought, that he cannot bear to lose this girl.

Of course, Hana is a complex, emotional, and wholly different human being- one that would never be able to play the role of Genji perfectly. Yet whenever she and Genji shares that special moment of kinship, he cannot help but be reminded of that kinship that he had once shared with Hanzo.

 _His_ Hanzo. The wolf to his sparrow.

Then, Hana. The rabbit.

 _His_ rabbit.

 _There is a good chance,_ he thinks vaguely to the tune of Hana’s laughter, the pain in his chest just a distant dream, _that I may never see her again._

As he crouches there, the night seems to last forever, into the quiet folds of eternity-

-that is to say, until the sun rises in a blaze of red and Hana awakens to find that the sparrow has vanished into the morning.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genji is very entertaining to write. He uses his relationship with Hana to explore how Hanzo felt about him in the past, and as a result understands how hard life was on Hanzo when he ‘killed’ Genji.
> 
> Comment response specifically to LOH- No, I don’t have a beta haha. I usually spend 1-2 days on each chapter, depending on its length. And thank you for all the well-wishes and wonderful reviews! I’ve been feeling a lot better :)
> 
> Will Genji be back? Well, I did say that he is very entertaining to write… so take that as your hint.
> 
> And don’t worry if you’re still craving interactions between Hana and different members of Overwatch- Genji left her the transceiver that lets her talk to everyone’s favorite time-speeding Brit!
> 
> Translation Notes:
> 
> Haiting!- ‘Bastardization’ of English word ‘Fighting!’, means to ‘Fight on!’
> 
> Babo- fool, idiot, dummy
> 
> Anija- Japanese word for ‘older brother’, more archaic than ‘aniki’
> 
> Note: Genji has a skin called ‘Sparrow’, Hanzo has a skin called ‘Wolf’, and Hana has a skin called ‘White Rabbit’ (as well as her logo being a cartoon rabbit), and so these animals are generally used to represent these characters, respectively.


	10. in via

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hana's getting by. Not really. She has to, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't even going to write past a chapter three in the beginning, and then look where we are today. Over on fanfiction.net, we've hit sixty followers! If we add you guys here on ao3 into the mix, we've hit over seventy. Absolutely incredible.
> 
> Thank you, each and every one of you, for supporting me- whether you're just someone who quietly follows the story or someone who comments on every chapter. You guys make my day.
> 
> I finally got over my sickness. First thing I did was sit down and finish writing this chapter! It's a bit of a set-up for the next segment of the story, which I promise will have some heartfelt conversation between Hana and Lena.

It's easy to miss the little details in life. Especially when that life is lived in the quiet but busy city of Busan, the second most populous metropolis of Korea. Whispered gossip here, a stolen kiss there- people will be people and people do not tend to notice.

Amin's no idiot. Amin prides her ability to pick up on the details.

Of course, this skill gets her into more than her fair share of trouble.

Case in point: this morning. The detail of the day is a short little girl dressed entirely in pink, shuffling about in a graffiti-scrawled alley. Amin slows her brisk pace dramatically, pulls out her phone, pretends to text someone. Pretends not to stare. Pretends not to wonder at how humans never seem to notice the peculiarities of day-to-day city life, especially when those peculiarities dwell right under their noses.

The girl is young- fourteen, fifteen years old? Upon closer inspection, she's wearing pajamas tiled with the face of a cartoonish rabbit. Her front is stained an odd maroon, and she's as pale as death himself.

Amin takes an uneasy sidestep towards her. She's seen enough troubled teens to recognize one out on the streets- they all had that strange, hunted look about them as they made their way through life. Shoulders slumped and heads ducked in a silent prayer that nobody would notice them. A quiet _tsk tsk_ hisses from her throat.

There's a duffel bag swinging from the girl's shoulder, and unlike the rest of her, it's new and obviously expensive- Amin recognizes that it's military-grade; Kyung had a bag similar to it while he was still in mandatory military service. _Even more suspicious, really._ She narrows her eyes, fingers freezing over her phone.

The girl's fiddling with a device of some sort- it's too small to make out- and that's when Amin realizes that the girl's arms are covered in something dry and dark red. A surprised yelp escapes her.

Her hand jumps to her mouth, but it's too late; the girl turns, dark eyes startled. The girl fumbles with the little device, spins around, long legs begin to move-

Now, Amin could let her go, just move on with her day. It's a lazy Saturday afternoon, and the _boongobahng_ stand beckons from the next street down with the smell of fried bread. It would be the easiest thing in to world to just turn around, continue on to the market, to have a warm lunch and then return to her apartment.

There are a million reasons why she shouldn't go after this strange girl- it's cold, it's dangerous, unpredictable-

Amin takes a meditative moment of silence. Turns off her eyes, bathes in the darkness. She's not an idiot. She knows trouble when she sees it. And she hasn't seen trouble like this in a long, long time.

_Back away now, Amin Lee. Back away now._

Oh, Amin Lee notices plenty. But Amin Lee was never very good at distancing herself from any of it.

It's a concoction of concern, pity, and burning curiosity drives her to call out "Hey!" The girl freezes.

 _The poor thing is shivering. It's winter, what's she doing walking around in pajamas?_ Amin walks up to her, heeled boots clicking a little too loudly against the pavement. She's aware that something is wrong with this girl- she could even be dangerous- but what she's even more aware of is that the girl is definitely in some kind of trouble. _This is a terrible idea._

"Hey, is something wrong?" she asks, adopting a motherly tone, despite only being twenty. The young girl's gone complete deer-in-the-headlights mode. "Are you hurt?"

Delicate lashes flutter, dislodging a drop of water that slides down the girl's cheek. Like a tear. She stares up at Amin, lips parted in surprise.

Amin bends her knees slightly, to make herself appear smaller and less threatening to the girl. She repeats, just a touch slower, "Are you okay?" She nonchalantly slides her open handbag from shoulder to elbow, so that the girl can see its contents clearly- cheap lipstick, makeup, a wallet. Nothing worthy of suspicion. Hopefully that would alleviate some of the girl's stress.

Sure enough, the girl's eyes dart down, to Amin's bag, searching for the danger that doesn't exist. Her expression twists into something stony and unreadable.

Finally, a reply. Firm- almost angry.

"I'm not hurt. Nothing is wrong, I'm okay." Her voice is high-pitched, but not unpleasant to listen to- she sounds like a child, far younger than she looks. Amin watches in concern as the girl unconsciously mouths the last two words repeatedly- _I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay._ An obvious attempt at a lie, though an impressive one. Amin's not met very many people who can put on a brave face like this girl.

Still, something is very unsettling about this entire confrontation. Her eyes flicker down to inspect the girl's limbs- yes, the strange stuff painting the girl's arms and shirt is definitely blood. _She obviously got in a fight. Abusive parents, maybe. Took with the wrong crowd?_ Then, a far more logical thought: _What am I doing here?_

She brushes her cashmere scarf over one metallic shoulder, hiding her uneasiness behind a thin smile. "So… ah… the red… liquid… is that all-"

"It's not mine," the girl blusters, voice going from high and soft to high and sharp. "I- I'm not hurt, or anything. Thank you for, uh, n-noticing?" She edges away from Amin, who suddenly has the image of a wounded animal trying to escape the reaches of a friendly human. "I'll… I'll be going now."

Amin's optics narrow and she makes up her mind in that same instant. It's genuine concern that moves her to offer, "You can wash up and change into something else back at my place."

The girl does not look afraid anymore, just confused. Her eyebrow arches in suspicion as she asks, "Do I know you?"

Why was the girl so hesitant? All Amin was offering was a hot bath and maybe some food. She crosses her arms, frustration growing steadily, but patience as limitless as always (or so she liked to think). "No. Does that matter?"

"Of course. You're a stranger, and-"The girl seems to unfurl, quick as a whip, and all of a sudden the bag is on the ground and her arms are slightly raised. Amin takes a hasty step back; the pose looks strikingly like something she'd see in a martial arts movie.

The girl's tone is accusatory. "Are you with Talon?"

 _What?_ Was that a gang of some sort? Amin hasn't ever heard of a 'Talon.' Her confusion is evident in her voice as she swears, "No, I'm- I'm not with _anyone_. I just want to help!" _Back away now, Amin Lee. Back away_ now-

" _Help,_ " the girl repeats. Amin doesn't know if it's just an echo of what she said or a plea. The look on her face is haunting- desperation, touched with uncertainty. "I… I don't need…" She swallows, relaxes her stance.

It's the perfect chance to get away. _She doesn't need help. She says doesn't need help, you foolish, soft-hearted piece of-_

It's too late. If she doesn't do this, the girl's expression of quiet lostness will be permanently seared into her memory archives.

"If you want to come with me," says Amin gently, "I won't call the police."

Part of her prays that the strange girl will say no, or run away, or scoff at her and leave. Amin knows she's right- this girl is trouble in its worst form. She watches nervously as the girl's hands clench around a band- no, a bracelet that wraps around her wrist. The rabbit charm sounds like a bell against the delicate glass beads speckling the leather.

Finally, she looks up. "Okay."

* * *

Hana hadn't actually expected Genji to just _leave_ her there. She'd thought that at the very least the cyborg would be there to see her off in the morning. She'd thought- she'd thought that he'd leave behind a note, or maybe say goodbye before he left.

(Some childish part of her, buried away beneath layers of lies and masks, had sincerely believed he would never go.)

Instead, she'd woken up to the sound of crows singing hoarse-throated on the eaves of the storage room, with nothing but a duffel bag and a blanket that Genji must've tossed over her in the night. No note, no sign, no anything- not even a trail of blood for her to follow, even though he'd been bleeding all over the place; God knows how he managed to do _that_.

The message was abundantly clear- _do not follow me._

But God knows she tried. She looked _everywhere._ She'd even returned to that terrible alley where Genji had been shot, where all signs of carnage from the day before had been fenced off with bright yellow CAUTION tape. A gaggle of curious passersby stood around gawking at the scene, despite the lack of anything spectacular to see- just ominous red stains and security Omnics brandishing electricity poles.

No signs of Genji.

 _Genji._ Hana doesn't know what to think of their conversation- hell, she doesn't even know what to _feel._ The thought that there had been a tragic motivation behind Genji's every brotherly move, some sort of dead brother situation?- the thought that Genji fully expects her to be able to survive all the way to Seoul- the _feeling_ that Genji considers her basically _family,_ the feeling that he was-

 _-dead._ Almost certainly dead.

Tears should come, but they don't. Hana's grown up. Or so she likes to think.

At the very least, Hana had the transceiver that allowed her to speak directly to Tracer. _Tracer,_ the bubbly Overwatch agent that has recited more than five of the twenty-or-so Overwatch speeches Hana knows by heart. If anyone knew what to do in this dire situation, it would be her. In a world without Genji, a world without an anchor, this woman would be the replacement.

Thirty-three times did Hana press that button. Thirty-three times Tracer did not pick up.

At that desperate time, standing rain-soaked in the alley, she had felt like she was falling to pieces. She _still_ feels like she's falling to pieces, even in the relative safety of some stranger's apartment. She doesn't know which subway to Seoul she has to take, or where in Seoul she's supposed to go to. She doesn't know anything about Talon except that they are big and bad and dangerous and _totally_ outclass her in every single way, from brains to numbers to firepower.

For hours she had wandered in circles, from the bread stand to the market and back, unsure of what to do, grinding gum between her teeth until it dissolved into wet sugar. Eventually she had been reduced to pacing back and forth in an alley, clicking that stupid red button over and over and over and over again-

Then the Omnic lady had called out to her. Offered help. Extended a robotic hand in friendship, obviously recognizing someone in need.

And Hana had tried to _refuse,_ because she's gotten to the ridiculous point that everyone on the streets seems suspicious, seems to be a Talon agent in disguise.

It took a little while for her to realize that if the Omnic was in fact a Talon agent, she would be dead whether or not she went with them. The thought that finally convinced her to follow the lady was vague and half-baked, a result of frazzled nerves- _If I die today, it might as well be after taking a hot bath._

So there she stood. Hair dripping with water and now smelling faintly of jasmine shampoo. Crouching over some stranger's sink, scrubbing at the hem of her pajamas, trying to get rid of that awful maroon stain. A clearly impossible task, but Hana's not sure what else to do at this point. Discolored water and soap bubbles run down the side of the sink, flowing freely onto the floor.

There's a gentle knock at the door- more of a tap, really. Hana swings her head to look at the doorknob, checking, with a wild flash of fear, to see if it's locked. She lets out a shaky exhalation of breath when she sees that it is, though she's not sure why. _Locked doors provide the illusion of safety, I suppose._

Emotions at odds with logic. Nowadays everything about her seems to be in conflict.

The Omnic's voice floats in, robotic but warm. "Can you open the door, dear?"

Hana looks down at the tiled floor, which is a wet mess. She throws a towel onto the floor in a pathetic attempt at covering the puddle. It doesn't work very well. Flecks of mud and water drip from every wall in the blindingly white room- the bathroom has been thrust into mayhem and she knows it's all her fault. Hana twists and pulls on the doorknob fully expecting the lady to throw her out upon the horrid sight.

The Omnic's silver faceplate has deep grooves on the sides, giving the impression of high, regal cheekbones. A model number catches light from where it is etched under one of her eyes- ET-03. Her optics flash a soothing blue as they swivel over the drenched room. Wordlessly, she holds out a bundle of fabric through the crack in the door.

Hana stares. They're clothes. And hell, they were nicer than anything she'd ever worn.

"Will this do?" warbled the Omnic, her strange, disembodied voice oddly soft. Hana blinks away her stupor, and she can't pretend to be annoyed by the Omnic's interference anymore. She's genuinely taken aback by the strange lady's kindness, and tries to work out the catch- what could this person possibly want in return?

"Ah, yeah. Er- thank you," Hana mumbles, taking the bundle from her. The Omnic hums in satisfaction(?) before disappearing behind the closed door.

The bundle of fabric unfolds into an airy pink blouse and soft black leggings (and Hana wonders why everyone automatically assumes her favorite color is pink, even though it's actually red.) She works quickly- peeling off her pajamas before slipping into the new clothes, stuffing her belongings into the duffel bag.

She's about to step out of the bathroom when a floor-length mirror catches her eye from the corner. It's mostly fogged up from the humid air, but what remains clear and glassy steals her breath away.

Hana can't help but stare. It's been a long time since she's really _looked_ at herself. In the short span of a week, she seems to have shot up a couple inches, gaining in height what she lost in weight. A lot of weight, it seems, as her face seems gaunt and her eyes a little too hollow for a living person. She swallows, following the bobbing motion of her throat, skin pale enough to fade into the white backdrop of the bathroom wall.

Her hair falls past her shoulders in dripping black-brown locks. At least now that it's wet it's not frizzy. Draped in the overlarge blouse, which vaguely resembles a poncho, and sporting the too-long leggings, which extend past her ankles to the tips of her toes like socks, she looks…

…better than she's looked in years. The kind of person she wouldn't be afraid to show to her millions of Twitch followers. She wonders if she's become more confident. Wonders if being hunted down is what really did it in the end, raising her self-esteem.

_Yeah, right. I'm still a nervous wreck._

That doesn't mean she can't still pretend, though. Hana flashes a smile at the mirror. DVA smirks right back.

* * *

The Omnic lady is humming a mechanical tune as Hana walks into the living room. The edges of the song are surprisingly soft and whimsical, though Hana can still notice a mechanical grating sound whenever the Omnic tries for a low note. Hana combs her fingers nervously through her hair and waits for the Omnic to notice her.

She does. Looking up from the potted geraniums she was watering, she turns to face Hana, voice warm with appreciation. "Ah, you look so much better now."

"Really? I thought I looked pretty fabulous before." The joke slides from Hana's lips as easy as you please, and even she's taken aback by how natural it sounds. The Omnic's optics flash (blinking, Hana realizes) once, twice.

After a long stretch of silence, she turns back to her geraniums and empties the cup of water she holds above them. "In any case, I am glad that you are feeling better." Her modulated voice somehow seems much friendlier now.

 _Feeling better._ With a wave of shame, Hana recalls how terribly she had treated the lady upon their first meeting. "I…" She swallows, looks down at her feet. "Er, what's your… name?"

The Omnic looks up at Hana, blue-lighted gaze steady. "My name is Amin Lee. And you are…?"

Genji has warned her about this. He had been laughing that day at the market, as Hana joked with one of the fishermen about the large octopus trying to escape the man's grasp. The man had asked Hana _what's your name, child_ , and Genji's laugh had disappeared as he interrupted Hana's reply with a brusque " _Her name is Tokki."_

A joke. She'd thought it was a joke. As it turned out, he was dead serious as they walked away from the pier, warning her that _a name is not a thing to be given so freely, Hana._

And so though Hana is loathe to continue deceiving Amin-nim, she decides with a fake little smile that this lie was a necessary evil. _For as much her sake as my own._

"Call me Tokki," she blathers on. "It's just a stupid nickname, really, but I'm more comfortable with it than my real name." She peers hopefully at the Omnic- Amin- who nods in understanding.

"Then, Tokki, is it okay if you wait here for a bit?" Amin steps out from behind the counter, and Hana can only now appreciate the luxurious full-length wool coat in which the Omnic is wrapped. _Is she rich or something? I wonder what she does for a living._ "I need to go pick up Tara from school."

Tara? Pick up from school? It has been a while since Hana has dropped out, but even when she was in second grade, she walked home from school by herself. That's how it almost always was in Korea. She doesn't ask about it, though, and instead smiles again.

"Sure."

Amin inclines her head, giving Hana a thoughtful once-over. Then she turns and leaves the apartment, still humming that lovely tune.

As soon as the door closes, Hana races to her duffel bag. Pulls out the transceiver, thumbs the red button once again, hoping, _praying_ that someone will pick up. It didn't have to be Tracer- it could be anyone, literally anyone that she could talk to, someone she didn't have to _lie_ to-

No response. Hana yells in frustration and throws the transceiver at the floor, where it bounces off the carpet and blinks innocently from its place on the ground.

_What am I doing? What am I doing? Where the hell is Overwatch? Where the fuck is Genji?_

She knows that she can't stay here for long. Talon is almost for sure already searching for her, and if they found this place- well, she doesn't know Amin very well, but Hana knows she would never be able to live with herself if the kind Omnic died because of her.

 _Die._ She can almost see the lady's wires strewn across her picturesque living room, painting the clean walls with oil.

The world presses in on her from all sides, shattering the illusion of safety. The landscape painting of Hallasan Mountain and innocent pot of geraniums seems all too real and frightening. _Yes, that's right. Talon could come bursting through the door, any second now..._

She counts down from ten, screws up her face in concentration. Waits for the black-outfitted agents to come knocking, even though of _course_ they don't. In fact, the room is dead silent, except for the sound of Hana's heavy inhalations. She's being stupid, she can't _think_ straight-

A sharp sense of panic invades her mind, her sense of calm. Hana kneels on the ground, fingers threading nervously through her hair. Half-formulated plans and ideas spin in an endless loop through her head.

What Genji had told her: _Get to the station. Take the subway to Seoul-_

_But which station? I don't know, I don't know, why won't they pick up?_

_Meet Overwatch in Seoul-_

_But where the fuck_ in _Seoul?_

_-a name is not a thing to be so freely given-_

_My name is Hana, it is DVA, it is Tokki._

Her breath hitches. A mental breakdown, that's what she was suffering from: a completely silent mental breakdown in the living room of a strange Omnic. She wants to laugh, but if she laughs, she would also cry, so she chokes back her emotions and continues to _think._

_I have the transceiver, they'll contact me eventually._

_Overwatch will be there to guide you-_

_I don't know, I don't know, why won't they pick up?_

_I believe in you._

_You're like a sister to me._

_Overwatch knows what to do, they'll contact me eventually._

_Think, think! A route to Seoul, a route to Seoul-_

_-dee-dee-dee. Dee-dee-dee-_

Hana's thoughts, her body, her feelings, her entirety freezes in place, heart jumping into her throat. Her eyes lock onto the transceiver. She hears the sound, sees the sound, tastes the sound.

_Dee-dee-dee. Dee-dee-dee._

Her hand latches onto the transceiver. She presses down on the big red button, her spirits inflating like a balloon, high with hope, drunk off of the wonderful and terrible feeling of _maybe_. Was she dreaming? Delirious, maybe? Perhaps she'd spent so much time seeking that sweet, sweet sound that it became a figment of her imagination. Yes, there had to be a catch- it couldn't be-

A voice with a marked British accent chirps from the device like a song from Heaven.

" _Hana Song, is that you, love?"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amin is an OC, and yes, she is completely Omnic. She may seem a bit randomly placed right now- but don't worry, she'll be more grounded in later chapters.
> 
> Translation Notes:  
> Boongobahng- Goldfish bread, same as the bread from the last chapter.
> 
> Tokki- means 'rabbit' in Korean.
> 
> Hallasan- means Halla Mountain, so technically I was grammatically incorrect when I said Mountain Hallasan (which would mean Mountain Halla Mountain!) Put the extra 'Mountain' in there for clarification.
> 
> Culture note: Especially in the cities, people in Korea usually walk or take a taxi everywhere. I remember my friend in Busan didn't even own a car; she biked everywhere. This includes very young children on their way back from school.


	11. daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hana meets Tracer, and she's not sure about anything anymore. Also Amin is a sweetheart

“Tracer,” Hana croaks.

“ _I’m really sorry, I really am,”_ babbles the agent, sounding more concerned than guilty. “ _We- I’m in Russia right now, and I was, um, occupied.”_ A buzz of static. “ _How- how are you holding up, love?”_

_Sorry._

Lena Oxton was _apologizing._

And she _should_ be, Hana realizes slowly. She brings up the transceiver to her mouth, to compensate for loudness with closeness.

“Where-“ Hana’s voice breaks, and the tremulous silence breaks along with it, as sharp as the breaking of a neck. “Where were you? Why- why didn’t you-“

“ _Hana, I truly am sorry,”_ says Tracer miserably somewhere on the other side. Her heavy sigh causes a rush of static. “ _We’re really understaffed right now. As in- as in, we don’t have any staff at all. Winston and I were busy figh-“_

“What’s happened to Genji?” cut in Hana. Adrenaline races through her bones, as if she’s face-to-face with a dozen Talon agents all over again. She’s sick with apprehension and, curiously enough, elation- she’s finally going to receive some directions. She’s finally going to find out how Genji is doing.

Silence. Hana very nearly shakes the transceiver, as if to somehow dislodge a reply. “Tracer?”

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” repeats the woman, her cheerful voice shaking ever so slightly. “ _Genji disconnected from the main channel yesterday night. He-_ “

“Who fucking cares? You can still find him,” snaps Hana. “You’re- you’re _Overwatch,_ you’ve got all that fancy tech, hell, I bet even your microwaves have GPS transmitters in them.” She wants to sound light and friendly, she really does, but her voice is quavering and peaking an octave higher of its own accord. She’s beginning to feel sick to her stomach from this confusing mess of relief and despair. “Please. He’s very hurt.”

“ _Agent Song,_ ” says Tracer firmly. “ _Genji disconnected from the main channel. He is purposefully hiding his location from us. We cannot extract him at the moment._ ”

Hana’s temperature drops a hundred degrees. “What! Why-“

“ _Our efforts in Russia aren’t going so smoothly, love. Genji knows that. He wants us to focus-_ “

Tracer’s voice is gentle. Smooth as jazz. Its therapeutic effects simply glance off of Hana’s shield of _why’s_ and _how’s_ and _what’s_ and _pleases’_. _Why doesn’t she sound more concerned?_

“He’s going to die.” It’s not just a paranoid belief anymore. It’s a fact.

A fact that Tracer apparently takes offense to, because she replies hotly with a “ _Hana, Genji is a professional! Don’t worry, he’s a tough guy. Have a little faith!”_ The sheer confidence that shines through her words makes Hana die a little inside.

 _Blood dripping between her fingers as she presses down on the wound, wondering if the red liquid will ever stop. Genji turning fitfully and rasping, “_ Anija-“

“ _Faith_ isn’t going to save him. You don’t understand how terrible shape he was in.” She wants to somehow plant a picture of Genji in Tracer’s head, injuries and all, to somehow convey the full extent of his pain to the woman.

 “ _Please, Hana. Let’s not discuss him right now.”_ Tracer exhales on the other end. “ _We don’t have a lot of time, love. And you’re not the only one that’s knackered right now, so… Believe me when I say that he’s fine, so don’t you worry about him. Your extraction is top priority right now._ ”

Fuck. This wasn’t going the way Hana had wanted to at all. She’d yelled and sworn at her childhood idol, and still couldn’t get the message across-

Hana presses her fingers into the bridge of her nose, squeezes her eyes shut. Takes a deep, calming breath, the way Genji always did when he meditated. She’d laughed at him at the time. _Silly, silly cyborg-_

Her jaw works against the gum in her mouth as she plans out her next words.

“Okay. Okay, then,” she breathes. “Forget Genji. Just… Tracer-nim, can you tell me where I need to go?”

That’s all she needs from Overwatch, really. Reassurance of Genji’s safety, and someone who will tell her what to do. So far, neither has been provided.

“ _Um- yes, right!_ ” Tracer goes from bitterly morose to hyper puppy in the space of a millisecond. “ _We don’t know how Talon found out about you, or the extraction plan, or Genji, but it’s okay! Everything will be just fine._ ”

Hana squints at her transceiver, at the suspiciously happy lilt of Tracer’s voice. “Er-“

” _The thing is, love, even if I told you which subway you’re supposed to take, you won’t be able to. Winston thinks that Talon is guardin’ those places for sure._ ” Hana blinks at the news, ( _shouldn’t I be surprised?)_ , as Tracer races ahead. “ _We’re planning a new route to the extraction point as we speak, so just sit tight and- well, maybe scout some of the city. Tell us what the situation’s like, yeah? Head to Jangsoo Station, and be mighty discreet about it. Tell us what’s going on there._ ”

“Hold on. You’re not going to come get me from Busan?” asks Hana, incredulous despite herself. After being ambushed by all those agents, it’s hard to believe that Overwatch was still carrying through with their go-to-Seoul plan.

Though- though if she really thinks about it, of course they can’t come fetch her themselves. Overwatch’s resources are spread thin, and to expend what little agents they have on one unimportant little girl…. Hana respects that ( _and she’s not bitter at all,_ DVA thinks sourly, _no, not at all, not at all-_ )

But Tracer. Tracer does not go through the logistics of Overwatch’s schemes, pointing out the reasoning behind all of it. Again, she _apologizes._

The British lady falters, and the genuine guilt saturating her tone is almost alarming. “ _I’m so sorry, mate. Our hands are tied. Overwatch doesn’t have the necessary funding or personnel to go looking for you right now. Genji was the only person we could spare, and sending him out alone was a mistake. We tried to get someone else to go with him, but they… they dropped out last minute. If they had… if they had gone…”_

A pause. In the deafening silence of the room, Hana can hear the rattle of Tracer’s every breath.

For an international icon and hero of Overwatch, she sounds awfully tentative, and soul-crushingly guilty enough for Hana’s expression to soften. “ _I don’t want to sound like I’m making excuses- it’s entirely our fault that you’re in this situation, love. But- but I tried to get Winston to let me go get you out of there, I swear, Hana. I really did. None of this should’ve happened… I’m sorely sorry.”_

The raging monster of elation and wanton fury that had been warring in Hana’s veins slowly calms, even though she doesn’t want it to leave. She _wants_ to be angry, she wants to vent to Tracer, she wants to be able to tell Overwatch exactly what it had done to her over the course of this terrible, terrible week.

  _You’re acting like a child,_ DVA hisses. _Who the fuck cares? You’re not dead, and as Tracer so adamantly puts, Genji isn’t either._ And then, snidely- _Though, she’s an optimistic fool. Don’t get your hopes up._

She bites her lip. Hard enough for her mouth to fill with the coppery tang of blood.

 _Genji’s blood-splattered visor hums in the dark warehouse. “_ Hana _._ _Think about what you are about to say. Think about it_ carefully _._ _”_

The transceiver hums in the sun-kissed room. “ _Hana?_ ”

Hana takes another breath. This isn’t Overwatch’s fault. This is entirely on Talon. Pushing the blame around on others isn’t going to accomplish anything, and- and being upset towards the indomitably cheerful Tracer makes her fingers curl with an odd sense of guilt.

 _At least I’m in contact with them, now. You’re not alone anymore._ It’s become her mantra, the thing that keeps her sane- _you’re not alone anymore, not alone anymore, not alone anymore._

Another deep breath. The silence is back, but Hana knows how to break it now.

By yelling and screaming? No.

“Okay, it’s fine. It’s okay,” she says, finally. No protests, no more swearing. _Calm and reasonable… think it through logically._ “I can… just, keep me posted, okay?”

“ _And you keep me posted too,_ ” says Tracer, voice bright with relief. “ _See, we’re getting somewhere now!”_ There’s the distinct clatter of fingers on a keyboard. “ _Let me set this up, and… here we go. Alright, couldja tell me where you are right now?”_

Hana’s not actually sure what the address of the apartment is, but she gives a clean description of the building itself- tall, light grey, in the heart of Busan’s shopping district.

And then- “I’m staying with an Omnic that calls herself Amin Lee.” She hesitates. Tracer makes encouraging sounds on the other side of the transceiver, while Hana swallows down the strange guilt that pitter-patters across her chest.

It feels as if she is somehow betraying Amin, though all she is doing is relaying information about the Omnic to Overwatch ( _behind Amin’s back_ , DVA scoffs.)

 “She’s got blue lights and she’s made of a silvery white material. There’s an inscription underneath one of her eyes, but…” Hana thinks back, but simply cannot recall the series of little numbers etched into the Omnic. “I’ll get back to you on that. I don’t remember her serial code.”

“ _Call back with that info as soon as you can, ‘kay? It’s reeeeeally important!”_ Hana finds herself listening almost wistfully to the tapping of computer keys; it’s been forever since she’s played StarCraft. “ _Of course, I doubt that she’s Talon, ‘cos you wouldn’t be cozing it out at a cushy flat if she was, right?”_

“I don’t think she’s with Talon either,” Hana agrees. “I think this place is safe.” She finds herself wondering at Tracer’s almost-hyperactive level of energy, and with a dull pang realizes that the persona of Tracer and the woman Lena Oxton were almost exactly the same.

_Tracer’s image flickers on the holovid, standing tall and bright orange. Her lips move confidently to extravagant, foreign words that Hana traces over in her head as she stares at the Korean subtitles-_

_왜냐하면_ _우리가_ _OVERWATCH_ _입니다_ _,_ _애_ _들_ _아_ _!_

_Hana whispers along clumsily, accent thick on her tongue-_

_“Cos we’re Overwatch, kiddos!”_

What was this strange feeling? Disappointment? It doesn’t make sense; Tracer was everything that Hana had ever imagined. _Why the hell-_

The Brit’s voice positively beams through the speakers. “ _Well, then! This should be enough info to appease the resident gorilla. I’m calling this status report over, unless you have something else to add.”_

“No, nothing.” Hana plops down completely onto the floor, eyes half-lidded with sudden weariness. “Thanks, Tracer-nim.” She’s not sure whether she’s relieved or even more tensed up now that she’s got a mission.

“ _If I’m guessin’ correctly, that bit you added onto the end of my name is something polite, like the thing Genji says a lot-_ ‘san’, _right?”_ Hana thinks she’s referring to the -nim suffix. She hums in affirmation and Tracer makes a noise of disappointment. “ _None of those formalities. Call me Lena! That’s what all my friends do._ ”

Hana almost retorts that she’s isn’t a friend of hers, she hardly knows the woman- but DVA responds with a light “Okay, Tracer,” and stifles her laughter at Tracer’s outburst of “ _Why, you-!”_

She sinks back against the couch. Speaks into the transceiver, seriously this time. “Bye, Lena.”

The transceiver’s red light continues to blink up at her. She blinks right back. Why wasn’t Tracer cutting the call?

Hesitantly- “Lena?”

Tracer’s voice is uncharacteristically somber. “ _Hana. You’re fifteen years old?_ ”

She’s not sure how to feel about the gentle pity in Tracer’s voice. She _hates_ pity, hates it with a passion, and yet-

-coming from Tracer, it feels quite nice. It doesn’t feel quite like pity, more like… sympathy?

_Impossible. What in hell do I, a teenage girl who’s claim to fame is her gaming abilities, have that Lena Oxton, the famous Slipstream-pilot-Overwatch-member-UN-representative, can sympathize with?_

“Fifteen or fourteen. Somewhere around there. I lost track a while ago,” she replies offhandedly.

Tracer sucks in a breath. “ _Well, fuck. Didn’t really believe it until I talked to you, love.”_

Hana blinks again. This has absolutely nothing to do with transporting Hana from Busan to Seoul. Also, she’s not sure how she feels about international icon and kid-friendly hero Tracer dropping the F-bomb.

“Tra- er, Lena?” she repeats uncertainly. Somewhere in Russia, Tracer lets out a quiet sigh.

“ _Overwatch hasn’t recruited someone as young as you in… in ever, really. We’ve only been back for a month, and we’re already breaking new ground.”_ Hana, again, isn’t really that surprised, though she takes a moment to marvel at it- that she, a fourteen/fifteen year old girl, was going to become a _soldier._

“Cool, right?” DVA chirps brightly. Hana cringes a little and wishes the earth would swallow her whole.

“ _Totally. You’ll do great,_ ” Tracer chirps back, and they both know that neither are sincere in the slightest. “ _Just, don’t hesitate to call, alright? If you’re in a pickle, or you need directions- bits n’ bobs like that. I’ll pick up whenever I can._ ”

The small smile on Hana’s face slides off like rain on a windowsill. She’s ‘known’ Tracer for less than ten minutes, and yet the Brit already feels like an old friend. A character trait that made Tracer who she was- famous. Successful. Along with the other poster child of Overwatch, Strike Commander Jack Morrison, the man with the gilded smile.

It is a character trait that Hana had desperately tried to emulate during her formation of DVA.

And so, as she signs of with a “Sure, I’ll call,” and Tracer shoots back a “ _Cheers, love_!” she watches the blinking red light go dark with a dull ache in her head.

She halfheartedly chucks the transceiver at the duffel bag from her seat on the floor, and, as per usual, misses. Getting up is too much of a pain, so she just leaves it there. Her terrible mood only worsens when she tries to reassure herself that Tracer is looking after her, now.

Tracer is _real._

Lena Oxton is _real._

The two are one and the same.

Perhaps Tracer is more of the best bits of Lena Oxton mashed together and cleaned up for the world’s viewing pleasure, but Lena is… a genuinely good person. Someone who, unlike Hana, is as truly thoughtful and cheerful as her persona.

After years of streaming as peppy, snappy, self-assured DVA, Hana had been sure- _so_ sure that Tracer was a fake. Just another stage name for a stage face.

While she’s relieved to know that that this isn’t the case, she’s also so, _so_ disappointed, because it means that there are real great people in the world that can live up to their persona’s name-

-and Hana just so happens to not be one of them.

It’s no big secret that if she were Hana Song to her viewers- a pessimistic, coldhearted, sarcastic brat- no one would watch her.

  _No one would love her,_ laughs DVA, and Hana agrees with a quiet huff of breath.

 The only thing that made acting as DVA bearable was the persistent thought that _well, everyone does this! Everyone puts on a mask._

But then the mask had become an irremovable part of her, and over time, irreplaceable as well. Whenever she succeeds in something and realizes, swept with the euphoria of the moment, that _I don’t need anyone-_

-DVA gently corrects, _Anyone but me._

She flops onto Amin’s couch with all the elegance of a dying slug. Her brain is as exhausted as her body, and the instant she hits the soft, downy cushions, it shuts down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The poor girl is passed out over the furniture when Amin returns to the apartment.

She turns to the doorway and raises a silvery finger to her faceplate, where lips would be if she were human. The message is clear even coming from an Omnic- _be quiet, please. Someone is asleep._ And then, pointing at the light switch- _Turn off the lights._

Tara scowls from the threshold and flips off the lights. The floor-to-ceiling windows shine with the millions of neon lights coming from Busan’s skyline, glinting an angry red off the Korean girl’s skin.

Tara’s voice cuts sharply through the quiet, ambient city noise. “I really thought you were pulling my leg, y’know?”

Amin makes frantic gestures at the sleeping girl- Tokki- whispering “Lower your voice!”

Tara reluctantly complies, but sounds just as wrathful with a hushed voice than without. “Amin. Seriously, though. _Another_ one?”

“This one was in grave trouble,” whispers Amin somberly, but Tara won’t have any of it.

”You keep taking in strays like this, and it’ll backfire on you one day. I’m telling you, it’ll all come crashing down,” hisses Tara as she stalks across the room towards Tokki. Presumably to wake her up and have a one-sided shouting match with the poor thing.

 Amin seizes her arm as she passes, putting a little more pressure into her grip than is necessary.

“Tara,” she says softly. “She was covered in blood.”

Tara flinches, her hard stare flickering from Tokki to Amin and back. “ _What?_ ”

“I _said,_ please keep your voice down.” She lets go of Tara’s wrist. “She was covered in blood, lost, confused and tired-“

“All the more reason to let her be, then,” snaps Tara, making no attempt at keeping her voice down. Tokki stirs a little in her sleep, and Amin catches the word _dumplings_ somewhere in her incomprehensible mumbling.

Tara’s face softens. Just for an instant, but Amin still notices it. Amin notices a lot of things.

Within Tara’s shell of cold indifference, Amin knows there is something very soft and emotional. Very much like Tokki herself, in fact. She’s sure that the two will get along eventually. That’s all that she’s worried about, really. Troubles came and went all the time, whoever it was that she was sheltering.

“Be reasonable and go fetch a blanket,” she says. Tara again reluctantly complies, as she always does, muttering near-silent curses as she trods off towards the closet.

Amin turns to Tokki. She’s curled up on her side, legs dangling off the side of the couch. The sullen mask of independence on her face is gone, replaced with a look of serene contentment.

Amin is uncomfortably aware of the fact that she’s made of cold, hard materials as she tries to pick the girl up as gently as possible. The girl’s frame is light, and her temperature readings indicate a slight fever. _Poor thing._

She silently thanks the Iris when she realizes that the girl is in too deep of a sleep to awaken now, however clumsy Amin’s efforts are.

Instead of continuing on to Tara’s room, Amin just stands there. For a long moment, she’s hit by a deep sense of nostalgia that’s both unexpected and very pleasant. Given the fact that it’s been more than four years since she’d last held Tara like this, and the fact that she has no touch receptors to make the feeling humanly ‘genuine’, she’s a bit surprised that she remembers this feeling.

Humanly ‘genuine’ and not genuinely ‘human.’ _Feeling._ Amin _feels_ , she’s sure of it. She feels anger, she feels sad, she feels a sense of loss when she looks upon Tara and remembers the little girl she once had been.

For all of her snappy words and flinty temperament, Tara made her feel- Tara made her feel a lot of things, but most of all, she made her feel like Amin had accomplished something with her life. Her worthless, Omnic life.

 _“Sleep safely,”_ she warbles, voice low, to the sleeping girl.

Tokki does say something imperceptible under her breath now and again, though. Amin hopes that whatever she’s dreaming about, it’s something peaceful. _God knows this girl could use some peace._

* * *

 

_The first thing Daddy does when he returns home is sweep her off her feet in a tight hug._

_She squeals as he spins her around, as delighted as she is confused. Daddy rarely smiles, and she can hardly remember the last time he laughed. “Daddy? What’s going on?”_

_He sets her down on the carpet as Mom sticks her head out from the kitchen, hair done up in a messy bun. The smell of her world-famous (or so Hana likes to think) fried dumplings wafts out enticingly. “_ Yuhbo? _You’re back early today?”_

_Daddy breaks into the brightest smile Hana’s ever seen, and for a split second, he’s even more beautiful than her lovely Mom. “Honey, I got promoted!”_

_Hana’s not sure what that that means, but apparently Mom is. She drops her pair of charred chopsticks, mouth open in surprise- in an instant, she becomes a blur of a red apron and black hair-_

_-and then-_

_-and then-_

_-and then the three of them are sinking to the floor in a many-armed hug, all laughing and giggling and crying out triumphantly- Mom’s arm is wrapped tightly around Hana’s face, Dad’s knee is somehow pressed against her shoulder-_

_Hana doesn’t know what’s going on, but in the end, she finds that she doesn’t care. She giggles and buries herself deeper into the warmth of Mom and Daddy._

_As long as they’re happy, does it even matter what they’re happy about?_

* * *

 

_I know I’m uploading at quite the ungodly hour, for which I am very sorry._

_There was a storm where I lived, and the power cut out for a couple days. Therefore, I could not write much during that time. That is why this update is late. I haven’t read last chapter’s reviews yet, either, but I’ll do that as soon as I can! This chapter is a total mess, as I had to scramble to get it done. I’ll probably fix it up later, when I have time. Again, my apologies._

_Some good news for this fic, though- I commissioned the incredible Moony to do a full color sketch of Amin and Tara, so you’ll be able to see what they look like, soon! I know it’s difficult to visualize non-canonical characters._

_Translation Notes:_

_-nim- Suffix denoting respect. Translates to ‘Mr.’ or ‘Ms.’_

_Yuhbo- What wives call their husbands, literally means ‘husband.’ Considered a term of endearment._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hana and Tara have something in common that you wouldn't expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: please keep in mind that Hana lied to Amin about her name. 'Tokki' and 'Hana' are the same person

 

* * *

Someone grabs Hana in the middle of the night. Just like that, the glowing warmth of her mother and father flicker and disappear like blown-out candles.

She lashes out with a fist out of pure instinct, aiming at a face that she can't quite see clearly in the darkness- a girl? Yes, it's a girl. A human girl, that seizes her arms with an iron-like grip. Her hands remain firmly wrapped around Hana's wrists, pinning her to the ground, even as she squirms in a futile effort to free herself.

A human girl- the only human girl here was supposed to Hana; what has happened to Amin? Her skin burns where the stranger touches her, she opens her mouth to yell for Amin to _run-_

"The fuck are you doing?" hisses the voice in her ear. Hana blinks rapidly. The girl pulls away, letting go of her arms. As soon as she's free, Hana springs backwards, clutching at the- the soft quilt around her?

She blinks again, eyes rapidly adjusting to the darkness of the room.

Yes, a quilt. Hana is sitting on top of a mattress with a blanket over her. It's not the one that Genji had left her, either- the stitches piecing together the squares of fabric that make up the quilt signifies that it's handmade. Seeing as how she's not sitting on the living room couch anymore, Amin must've carried her to a bedroom. She'd be grateful if she weren't so confused.

Hana wrenches her gaze away from it to squint up at the unabashed shadowy mass leaning over her, on both hands and knees.

She's- she's pretty, but in an _intimidating_ way. She's lithe and built like a lightweight boxer. Dark eyes and brows sharp and sculpted, lifting at the corners in points. Tan skin, her bare arms rippling with the subtle bulge of muscles. Her messy black hair looks like someone took a pair of scissors and lopped off everything that grew below her chin. Even when she's all crouched over Hana, Hana can tell the girl is at least three inches taller.

Her mouth catches up to her brain, and Hana finally spits, "Who the hell are you?"

The girl stares at Hana, the crease between her brows deepening. "Tara. Amin didn't tell you about me?" Her voice is low and sharp with aggression.

 _Amin._ A familiar face. Was this girl a friend of hers? Hana scoots a little further back, heartbeat still racing. "I- I don't know anything about you. Get out of my face, please."

Tara sits back on her heels with a scowl. The moonlight from the apartment window illuminates her face, and she looks even more intimidating in the brightness, if that was possible- her high cheekbones create stark shadows down the sides of her face, bangs overshadowing most of her eyes. Hana notices her sheer white tank top and grey pajama bottoms for the first time.

Tara crosses her arms, voice low and surly. "Amin told me about you, but didn't tell you about me? What the fuck."

 _Watch your damn language._ Hana can't imagine this coarse, all-up-in-your-face girl anywhere around the gentle Omnic. "Again, _who the hell are you?_ "

She glares. "I already told you. I'm Tara. Tara Lee."

Hana recalls Amin saying something about picking up a certain Tara from school. Tara Lee… Amin was a Lee too, right? But Lee's a common enough last name in Korea for Hana to ask, "You and Amin are related?"

"Is this a fuckin' interrogation or something?" Tara slouches back on her hands, tilts her head as she inspects Hana.

Everything about Tara fulfills every single school delinquent stereotype that Hana knows, from her casual but confident body language to how her sentences are peppered with swear words. Hana narrows her eyes, thumbs her bracelet. She can't tell if it's all a tough act or not.

Tara narrows her eyes right back. "I'm Amin's daughter."

So they were related. Tara was most likely adopted by Amin, because… well, Hana doesn't fully understand the legal component of an Omnic having children, but she's sure that it's possible in a 'progressive' country like Korea (and she almost laughs at the thought, because her mother and the Ssang Kal are anything but _progressive._ )

Hana gathers herself into a more dignified sitting position, composes her thoughts. She certainly doesn't _want_ to get friendly with this blatantly rude girl, but… _If I'm going to stay here for a couple more days, then I guess it doesn't hurt to get to know her? I_ am _intruding, after all._

She tries to come up with an appropriate response. Finally, she settles on "Ah, I see."

An awkward silence hovers in the air as Tara studies her. Hana's not sure if she should be saying something or not. The tips of her ears burn; she hates this silence, and she wonders if she hadn't dropped out of school she'd be more prepared to take on these challenging sort of social encounters.

Hostile words shatter the quiet. "You're not judging us or nothing?"

Of all the strange, intrusive things Tara has done in the five minutes that Hana has been awake, this is the one that threw her off the most. Hana doesn't mean to sound incredulous, but she does. "Judging you- both of you for what?"

"I've got an Omnic mom. What do you _think?_ "

Hana had never really understood the terrible things people did to Omnics. Granted, she hadn't known any Omnics in the first place, but by her reasoning they couldn't possibly be any worse than the humans she knew.

"I don't have any problems with Omnics," she says, feeling oddly defensive. "And besides, Amin is nice. I don't care if she's your mom or whatever."

_In fact, I'm feeling a bit jealous._

Tara's shoulders droop a millimeter, and she sounds more worried than threatening now. "I'll have you know that I'm a fourth degree black belt in taekwondo. If you try to pull anything funny here-"

"I won't, I won't," says Hana hastily, though- though maybe she already has, just by being here. God knows if Talon has already detected her whereabouts. The thought puts her more on edge than anything, and the words slip from her mouth faster now.

"I didn't _ask_ Amin to take me in, and while I'm grateful that she has, I… it wasn't my intention to. Uh. Intrude on anything," she finishes lamely.

Tara arches an eyebrow. Instead of directly responding, she asks, "Where the hell did you crawl from anyways?"

Hana is tired to the extreme, and she _really_ doesn't want to be having this discussion right now. It's not a matter of confidentiality- as long as she excludes the bits about Overwatch, she's fairly certain that she can speak to Tara and Amin about whatever she wishes.

On the other hand, she simply does not care to spill her guts to some stranger who happens to be her host.

So she states a vague "I ran away from home," which is at least part of a whole truth, ignoring the way Tara's eyebrow creeps further up her face in suspicion.

"Amin said that when she found you, you looked like shit," she says bluntly. "Anything to say about that?"

Hana wants to lie down and block the girl out. Echoing Tara's previous sentiment- what was this, an interrogation? She didn't _ask_ for Amin to take her in; Amin had insisted. Her being at the house wasn't her fault- and besides, it wasn't like she was hurting anyone by just staying there.

Was it only natural that Tara was concerned about sharing a roof with a suspicious stranger? Sure.

But that doesn't make Hana any calmer. Heat creeps up the back of her neck as hunger bites at her stomach, weariness drags down her bones, and a fierce fire of anger blazes away in her head.

"I didn't do anything wrong. Leave me alone," she snaps, which was also the truth. She promptly lies back on the mattress and wraps herself in blankets, turning her back to the scowling Tara.

An angry girl, she can deal with. Genji's absence and maybe-perhaps-hopefully-not-death, though he is sorely missed, she can deal with.

Worries about the future, about Talon, about death, about her parents and the Ssang Kal, what she's going to do, going out to Jangsoo Station alone, about what her existence in this household can (and probably will) eventually do to its family- even that, she can deal with.

All three at once? The pain in her head is nothing compared to the void in her heart.

Hana closes her eyes, reaches at comforting memories to grasp on to. Buying Genji a bright green scarf. Him wrapping the scarf around his head like a cowl and pretending to be a ninja. Crouching low and scuttling sideways like a crab towards random passersby, spooking them with a sudden shout of "SAKE!" She'd asked him what the word meant, and he'd explained it was just a Japanese alcohol. That day had been the first time she'd cried from laughter.

That warmth. Yes, all she wanted was to feel that warmth.

Hana can't quite remember what she'd been dreaming about before Tara Lee woke her up, but she remembers that same all-encompassing warmth and the music of laughter. She holds on to that familiar feeling, curls up in her blanket. Falls asleep.

And she dreams of Genji.

* * *

_The air around the pier smells of salt. Hana peers up at the vast blue dome of the sky, where a sun hangs low behind a thin veil of sheer, white clouds. The hoarse Korean of the fishermen at the docks rings like a distant dream._

_Genji stands stock-still at the end of the pier, staring off into the endless ocean, no doubt his thoughts waxing philosophical. Hana ventures onto the pier, careful not to make a sound on the creaking wood- and suddenly she's seized with this childish desire to push Genji right off the edge._ It's irrational and not the kind of thing I would do at all.

_Then again, Hana hasn't been herself lately. With Genji around, she feels that it's okay to be a child. After all, she has an adult to look after her. So she goes ahead and shoves the cyborg forward with a giggling "Boo!"_

_He lets out an undignified squawk as he tumbles from the platform; Hana grins to herself as water splashes up to her feet. She peeks over the edge. "How you feeling down there?"_

_No response. There's nothing but frothy sea foam floating atop the bubbling indigo water._

" _Genji?" she asks tentatively. Again, no response._

_A thought strikes her as heavy and painful as a bullet. She could've pushed him to a terrible death by drowning, weighed down by his armor… or maybe the water hadn't reacted well to his more electronic bits. She could've- could've killed Genji?_

_Hana lowers herself onto the wood, getting as close to the water as she can. Doesn't matter- she still can't see anything in the dark depths of the sea. "This isn't funny."_

_No response. She screams, "GENJI!"_

_Two white, robotic limbs launch from the water and latches around her arms, pulling her straight into the icy water. She opens her mouth to scream again and it's promptly filled with salty seawater._

_Hana gags and coughs as her head breaks the surface, frantically paddling to keep herself up. Bobbing serenely next to her is Genji, green visor flickering._

" _Payback," he intones, and Hana can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice._

" _Michin-nom," Hana says, trying to sound furious, but this stupid smile keeps breaking out over her dripping wet face. She doesn't say that she was worried. That she thought he was drowning. No doubt he'd call her paranoid. She swipes at Genji and only succeeds in splashing him with water._

_He chuckles and clambers back onto the pier with relative ease. Hana swims over and tries to get up, but her shivering arms can't seem to hoist her waterlogged body up onto the planks._

_Genji kneels and extends an arm, stifling a chuckle as Hana shoots him a glare. "Here. Take my hand."_

_She reaches for it. But Genji is no longer there._

_Off-balance and with nothing to grab on to, Hana falls back, back into the water-but the water is gone, too, and she falls flat on her back into a snowbank._

_The ground is wet, slippery, and freezing. She scrambles to her feet- turns around- but nobody is there._

_Nobody but a lone girl._

_It's eerie how brightly she is smiling amongst the flurry of snow. Her face is perfectly sculpted, dashed with makeup, so completely manufactured- she doesn't seem quite_ real. _Hana shudders._

" _Where's Genji?"_

_The girl shrugs. The flowing locks of dark hair cascading down her shoulders ripple with the small movement. She's so gorgeous that she glows, even amongst the blindingly white particles of snow._

_Her voice is high and curls on the R's. "Where do you think he is?"_

" _Dead," says Hana without thinking. The girl claps her hands and laughs. It's a sound of pure mirth._

" _So you already know. Then why do you ask?"_

_Hana takes a step forward. Her bare feet crunch in the snow. "Who killed him?" she asks, voice low._

_The girl is still smiling. Perfectly red lips, curled up into a perfectly fake smile._

" _You already know the answer to that."_

* * *

Amin is an idiot, Tokki is a stranger, and Tara is more concerned than she'd like to admit.

She was going to leave the girl alone… she really, truly was. But the girl was stirring something awful in her sleep, and that pricked Tara's conscience enough to shake her awake.

As a reward, Tokki freaked out and tried to attack her- which, in Tara's mind, justified pinning down the younger girl to her mattress. _Tara's_ mattress, actually. In the space of one day and a night, Amin's little guest had already borrowed an entire set of clothes, a room, two blankets, a pillow, and a mattress from Tara.

She reckons all of that is reason enough to dislike Tokki. For some reason, she still doesn't.

Tokki is surly and quiet and sullen enough to remind her of herself, back before Amin took her in. Not that Tara isn't surly and sullen _now-_ and that doesn't really help matters much.

So when morning comes, instead of rudely shaking the exhausted girl awake, Tara lets her sleep in. It's a Saturday morning, after all, and Amin has already left for work. Leaving the two of them behind. At least if Tokki's asleep Tara won't have to interact much with her. She'd like to minimize her awkward alone time with Tokki as much as possible, thank you very much.

Tara pours herself a bowl of _Luci-Oh's,_ sits at the kitchen counter with an exasperated sigh. With the arrival of yet another poor stray that Amin picked off the streets went all of Tara's hopes at having a peaceful weekend. _I guess I'm gonna lock myself in my room and play StarCraft all day._

The door to Tara's room creaks open. Tara tries not to look disappointed when Tokki steps cautiously over the threshold, hair slightly disheveled from tumultuous sleep. _She's already awake?_

"Good morning," says Tara as politely as she possibly can. That is to say, a growl.

Tokki blinks. Two seconds of silence pass. Two seconds too long for something as simple as a reply of _Good morning._

"Ah… good morning," Tokki says finally, rubbing at her eyes. She just stands there, hovering uncertainly halfway between the door and the kitchen counter.

Tara wants to be cruel and just ignore her, but Amin would never forgive her if she did. So she pats the high stool next to her and says, a little softer but just as crudely, "Wotcha standin' there for? Grab yourself a bowl of cereal."

Tokki does as she says. Pours another bowl of _Luci-Oh's._ Blinks rapidly, eyes wide, at her surroundings. Tara notices now, in the brightness of the room, how unnaturally pale the girl is. Which is strange, because that was a trait you usually saw in people who spent too much time indoors, and not on someone who was obviously homeless.

"Where's Amin?" Tokki's voice is steady, but high-pitched and childlike. It sounds vaguely familiar, but Tara can't really place where she's heard it before. She swallows back her distaste and spoons some of her cereal.

"She's at work. Also, it's a Saturday, so I'm not going to school. Meaning it's just us two until four o' clock," she says dryly. Tokki digests this information with a frown.

"What does Amin do for a living?"

 _Stop talking about her. Stop trying to get to know her,_ Tara wants to yell.

Instead, she spends a long moment chewing her cereal, before swallowing and saying, "She's an interior designer. And she's really good at what she does." Tara can't keep a little bit of pride from seeping into her voice.

Tokki stares thoughtfully down at her bowl, expression entirely indecipherable. It's unnerving and Tara wants to shout _Snap out of it._ By no means is she in expert when it came to people or social politics, but even she can tell that something is very, very off about this girl.

" _She was covered in blood," says Amin softly._

Of course Tara is curious about the girl. She knows that curiosity is what got Amin to take the girl in, to a certain degree. But if last night was anything to go off of, Tokki wasn't all that eager to talk things out.

Tokki begins to eat her cereal. Tara takes this as a sign that the girl doesn't want to talk anymore, ( _thank fucking God),_ so she wolfs down the rest of her own cereal. Grabs her holoboard off the counter. Sinks into the living room couch and pops open Starcraft.

She doesn't bother to plug in a headset, so the sounds from the game echo loudly through the room, as comforting as one of Amin's hummed lullabies. She checks through her message boards, and sees that it's a mess, as per usual- ever since world-famous Starcraft connoisseur DVA's disappearance, Tara's been sent an average of about six conspiracy theories a day.

 **:TWINDRAGONS:** _[It's entirely possible that DVA is actually a computer program that just gets voiced over by a VA during streams]_

reply **++++-HAZZAMO:** _what, she got shut down or something?_

reply **++++-YAHBOI:** _She never did a fa ce cam be4 maybe thats why…_

 **:QUEENSMAN:** _[Well, I wouldn't be surprised if dva wasn't human]_

reply **++++-TRASHCANDROID:** _I think you're all overthinking it._

She scrolls through the content with only mild interest- drug overdose, kidnapped by Omnics, or maybe DVA _was_ an Omnic- all stuff she's heard before. Personally, she's certain that DVA just broke her computer or something. Whatever or whoever she was. None of this ridiculous, overly dramatic stuff.

Honestly, Tara couldn't care less what had happened to the mysterious gamer, or whether or not they're a computer construct. She just wants her to start streaming again.

It wasn't even to learn how to play better- it was to just sit and stare and wonder how it was possible for someone to be so fucking _good_ at a game. Tara's not even sure that someone _could_ learn from one of DVA's matches- she was just so on another level that by the time someone caught up to one of her moves, the game was over. Followed by a voice piping over the speakers, all giggly and innocent, _"Is this easy mode?"_

Tara blinks in surprise as Tokki sits down next to her, holding her bowl of _Luci-Oh's._ The couch sinks slightly underneath the added weight.

The girl leans over Tara's holoboard. "You play StarCraft?" Tokki asks softly.

Well, she'll be damned. So the homeless, strange little girl knew what StarCraft was. Tara's fingers scuttle over the virtual keyboard like a crab, shooting back replies to each message prompt.

"Yep. Not so much anymore, though. Don't have all that much free time."

Tokki squints at the holoboard, having taken sudden interest in the messages. "DVA… is missing," she reads, confused. And then, hastily, "Who is-?"

God. Tara had forgotten just how isolated this girl must've been when growing up. "Who is DVA? Only one of the best gamers _ever._ She went missing a couple days ago, and of course the Internet didn't handle it very well." Tara waves at the screen. "Theories started cropping up. If you're in the StarCraft community, there's no way to avoid them."

She swivels her head to look at Tokki, who's still staring at the holoboard with a strange intensity. "Why… you play?"

If Tara didn't know better, she could've sworn a ghost of a smile had flickered across Tokki's pale face, framed by locks of dark brown hair.

"Not really," Tokki says simply. "Are you good at it?"

Tara's skills in StarCraft are one of the few things she's proud about, next to her medals in taekwondo. So she kicks back and smirks as she logs into the game. This girl was about to be _seriously_ impressed.

"You'll see."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes:
> 
> Michin-nom: Crazy bastard
> 
> Cultural note: In Korea, beds are usually mattresses laid out on the floor without bedsprings or a bedframe, very similar to the Japanese futon. As the vast majority of the population-dense cities of Korea live in apartment buildings that do not have an abundance of bedrooms, women tend to sleep in one room together and men in another (with the exception of straight couples, who will obviously sleep in the same room.) Which is why it is not unusual for Tara and Hana to be sharing the same room.


	13. divenire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hana interacts with a girl around her age for the first time. This girl is sort of temperamental. It goes about as well as you might expect…

Pretending to not understand the mechanics of StarCraft II hurts Hana on a personal level.

"No- no, put your hands _here,_ you dolt!" Tara plants Hana's hand firmly over the keyboard. "You want a high APM, don't you?"

Hana scowls, even though her sides are fit to burst from contained laughter. To further sell her cluelessness, she sputters, "S-sorry, what's an APM?", though the definition of the acronym has been ingrained in her head for years now: _Actions per Minute._ Also a feature of one of Hana's most popular catchphrases- " _Time to raise my APM!"_

The look on Tara's face is a mixture of outrage and utter disgust. Hana hastily ducks her head behind her screen so that the older girl can't see her cheeks puff up with a muffled giggle. Why was this so damn funny?

"You said you've played StarCraft before, you little shit!"

Hana calms down enough to counter, "Only once or twice, and it was at a crappy PC cafe." She squints down at her borrowed holoboard, which is actually Amin's, and therefore not very well suited for gaming. Oh, well- she's played in worse conditions before. "I get the gist of the game, though. So don't bother going easy on me."

By no means is Tara bad at StarCraft. Hell, she's probably in the upper echelons of the game's playerbase, which is saying something because she's just a casual. Hana had just watched her stomp some poor scrub to pieces with some seriously clever tactics.

But if Tara is champion, then Hana is a _god,_ complete with a legion of mindless followers numbering in the millions.

Practice has something to do with it. Streaming and MeTube ad revenue was her only source of income for years, and keeping her family afloat, what with Father's tremendous debts and all, is no easy task even if you stream for every day, every year.

And talent- Hana _knows_ she has talent. It's what got Overwatch to message her in the first place. If practice hasn't widened the gap between Hana and the rest of the world's reaction times enough, then it's talent that drives them so far apart that sometimes Hana wonders if they're the same species.

A high reaction time. God, what a practical skill. Instead of dealing with her mother's drunkenness and father's absence by facing them head on, she can just _game_ it all away. It's such a gut-wrenchingly sad fact that it's become sort of hilarious.

The frown on Tara's face is replaced by a small, self-satisfied smirk as she logs in. Obviously she thinks that Hana is just another easy win. Hana would've felt bad for her if she didn't secretly feel so damned upset at Tara's underestimation of her abilities. Mastery breeds contempt for those who are lesser, and Hana is bathing in her mastery of the game.

Though, she's also partly just excited to start playing. _It's been what- more than a week?_ For most of her life, a single _day_ hadn't gone by in which she didn't play. With the absence of the game came a newly revived hunger for it, to taste the delicious salt of some player's tears as she giggled into a mic.

Of course, she also has to be very careful. If she plays too well, Tara will become suspicious. What with the recent disappearance of DVA and all, Hana is certain that Tara will be able to put two and two together. Though… it's still a rather far leap of logic to think that the grubby little street urchin with no home is actually a famed gamer (that Tara apparently watches on stream. Hana's not sure how she feels about that.)

On the other hand, if she plays too poorly, she will lose. Human pride deigns that Hana would rather die than be defeated at the one thing she has complete control over.

"Are you ready?" asks Tara, her coarseness temporarily muted under sheer excitement.

Hana reigns her emotions in with a shaky hand. "Of course." _Game on._

* * *

She tries to drag out the match. It lasts seven minutes.

The silence in the air weighs heavily on Hana's shoulders. She sweats nervously as she peers at Tara from behind the safety of Amin's holoboard. The girl is a stock-still mass of jumpy nerves and total anger.

Hana's about to shut down Amin's holoboard when Tara's arm shoots out and grabs it, preventing her from closing the top. "No," she snarls, eliciting a jump from Hana. " _Again._ "

The next match is as one-sided as the first, mainly because Hana is fueled by a burning determination to beat her soundly now. Tara thinks she can win? Against _Hana?_ She can hear Tara's fingers pounding into the keys like they had killed her family from three feet away. It doesn't prevent her from losing, though, and Hana, feeling a little bit more confident, has to resist the urge to smirk as Tara demands, flustered, "Once more!"

Hana clicks her tongue as she complies. _That wasn't enough for you, huh?_ A devilish smile breaks out across her face, small but insistent.

_Fine._

The will to not unleash the full extent of what she can do drains slowly away. Her fingers fly across the worn plastic of the keyboard as the sound of frantic clicking echoes through the electrically charged air. Then, with a rush of exhilaration, the proverbial dam holding her back strains as she gradually speeds up to match Tara's also increasing APM. She's in her element now; this is where she has complete control. Both girls squint furiously at their holoboards, which flicker under the intensity of their screen-rocking key-punching.

One minute passes. Then, two minutes. Three minutes, four minutes-

At five minutes, VICTORY! flashes across Hana's screen in bold white lettering, partly mirroring the DEFEAT that flashes across Tara's. _Maybe I've overdone it,_ she thinks as she checks on her opponent. The stunned look on her face is worth the suspicion Hana had probably garnered with this little stunt.

A bit of childish glee seeps through her blank face, causing the corner of her lip to twitch upwards. _That's right. I won._

Tara is speechless even when Hana shuts Amin's laptop with a soft _click._ She yawns and stretches out her arms, feigning boredom. "Video games are easier than I thought."

Usually she'd expect someone like Tara to shoot back a snappy comeback. However, the paleness of the girl's skin indicates that she has basically become a block of ice.

"Tara?" she ventures. The girl in question blinks twice in rapid succession, closes her holoboard with an especially forceful click, and stands up, looming over Hana.

Hana scrambles backwards to the corner of the couch, all of a sudden feeling all too small. "What-"

"How did you do that?"

"How did I do what?"

Tara gestures towards her closed holoboard, sharp features still pulled back in a scowl. Her tank-top and shorts are rumpled, lending to her a slightly deranged look. "That's not- that's not _possible._ "

"I just did it, so I'd say it is," says Hana shortly, trying to keep herself as blasé as possible. "What, you're that upset that I won?"

She can almost see the gears in Tara's head turning.

"Who are you?" Tara finally snaps, nostrils flaring like some sort of mad ox. "There is _no_ way you're new to StarCraft. Meaning you're definitely not homeless, and you're rich enough to either own a computer or regularly go to a PC café."

Her next words hang unspoken in the air: _Meaning you're taking advantage of Amin's kindness._

Damn, Hana screwed up big time. _And all just to have a little fun, too._ Should she have matched Tara's skill level more closely?

"Wh-what? I _am_ homeless," defends Hana hastily, unsure of how to assuage Tara's sudden anger. Just as she was getting comfortable with this gruff, loud girl, she finds herself getting threatened by her. Absolutely wonderful. And over a game, no less.

"Who are you?" Tara repeats with an air of disbelief, knuckles cracking intentionally loud. "And don't you dare lie to me."

Hana is fairly certain that Tara is ready to pummel her into the ground without a second thought, fun times gaming together be damned. Her speech comes out sharp and frantic. "I already told you. I'm Hana Song, fourteen or fifteen years old, and I _really_ don't have anywhere to go. Okay?"

Tara's voice is as icy as her countenance. "Your name is _Hana Song?_ "

Hana tries to gather herself into a less compromising position than the one she's currently in- jammed into the space between an armrest and a velvet cushion. "Yes. Hana Song; are you deaf?" _Wait, no._ "I mean, no, my name is Tokki." Ahhh, fuck, she's an idiot, a naïve idiot-

Tara advances even further towards Hana. What is she going to do? This situation had spiraled completely out of Hana's control into something outrageous. She tries to think of something to say, but the only thought in her head is that _Tara knows my full name, and she knows that I'm a liar._

_Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-_

"Whoops," Hana says, far more calmly than she feels. _I need to get out of here._ "That was just a slip-up-"

She rolls off the couch, grabbing at her duffel bag, which lies partly unzipped by the coffee table. As soon as her hand wraps around the coarse fabric of its handle, she makes a run for it. Towards the door. It's time to leave-

Hana doesn't make it very far. Tara swears, and actually reaches forward and _grabs_ the scruff of Hana's borrowed blouse, pulling Hana far closer to Tara than she's comfortable with.

_Fuck, fuck-_

Hana grabs Tara's arm and tries to twist it away, but the girl must've been serious when she said she was a fifth-degree black belt in taekwondo, because Hana might as well be trying to bend a steel bar.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" demands Tara, short hair flying in her face as she tries to keep the wriggling Hana in her place, posture and demeanor reminiscent of a drill sergeant. "You lie and then you run?"

Maybe a physical response is uncalled for, but it's the type of response Hana knows best. So she lashes out with a foot at the junction of Tara's knee, whereupon, in theory, the girl should stumble and fall.

It connects with a sold _thack,_ and instead it's Hana that falls back with a yelp because her foot throbs like she'd kicked a _brick. What the hell is this girl made of?_

Her pitiful attempt at a kick only further angers Tara. "What, you want me to let go?" she asks, scowling as she readjusts her grip. "So you can run away to somewhere else? Away from your daddy issues?"

 _Daddy issues?_ Something about that stings. Hana screws up her face to yell back a petty insult, but DVA seizes control with what little grace remains of her, forcibly lowering her volume and evening out her tone.

"You don't know anything about me," she says in the end, voice wavering back-and-forth between calm and cold. _You don't know what I've gone through to get here!_

Tara snaps.

"Oh, yeah? You think so ? You aren't the first stray we've taken in, _Hana,_ " she seethes. "And I think I know plenty enough. Your parents don't care, or maybe they're dead, whatever the fuck- so you get into trouble and you try to run from it all. And then kind people like Amin take you and in the end they're the ones that get blasted for all the hell _you've_ raised, y'know that? Just shut up, sit down, and take the help you can get."

 _That's not true,_ Hana wants to shout, but the words are stuck in her throat, because- because it's true that she's running. She blinks furiously and opens her mouth to speak, but now she's afraid to say anything, because it has taken less than twenty minutes for Tara to figure out that Hana is a liar from what little she had already said-

_Why did I think this was a good idea?_

She swings a fist at Tara's unprotected face. Tara grunts at the blow, drops Hana, who stumbles backwards with stinging knuckles.

Blood dribbles from Tara's nose as her gaze meets Hana's.

Hana's prepared for a barrage of insults. Hana's prepared to grab the duffel bag and run. She's prepared to head straight towards the subway station, to tell Tracer-nim that there's been a change of plan…

"Go on," Tara spits. She wipes at her nose, leaving a long, red streak across her face.

"Run away."

And just like that, Hana is effectively locked in place. Weighed down by an anchor of pride and a burning desire to prove this girl wrong. Even if she longs to just bolt from the apartment, to let them face Talon's wrath on their own…

 _I can't._ She needs to calm down. She needs to have a place to stay. She's no coward; Genji had told her she was brave, and Genji has yet to be wrong. Besides, if she runs now- leaves them to deal with the Talon raid that is sure to come in the near future- Hana will forever be haunted by the thought that _maybe I killed them._

Hana takes a deep breath, tucks her hair behind her ear. This childish bout of fury had almost destroyed the tenuous relationship she had begun to build between herself and the household's residents.

"I... I'm sorry," she says stiffly, as if she's painfully coughing up words of broken glass. "Please let me stay here for just a bit longer."

Tara just stares. She replays the ridiculousness she had just caused in the theater of her own head.

_I lied to the host. When they became angry, I kicked them. When they got even angrier, I punched them in the face. They ordered me to leave, and I- I need to stay. I need to convince-_

Tara takes a step forward, expression unreadable. Even so, she has what has often been referred to as a _resting bitch face,_ and it's just as terrifying to witness as her angry face. Hana keeps her head mostly down, trying not to flinch away. She's sure that she's going to get scolded… maybe even hit?

She nearly jumps a foot when Tara's hand comes down on her shoulder, heavy and damning. The older girl's words are low, but just an infinitesimal bit gentler as she steers Hana back to the couch.

"C'mon, we're having a rematch."

She sits Hana down on the couch, who's more stunned than confused. Tara drops down next to her, propping open her own holoboard with a casualness that simply should _not_ be there, considering the blood that is now streaked across her face.

Hana figures she should just go along with this sudden change of mood without question. Instead she sputters in a disbelieving sort of way, "You're not upset with me?"

Tara snorts and wipes at her nose again, creating a discolored splotch of light red on her otherwise unmarked face. "Well, I already knew that you were lying about basically everything. And now that you've admitted it- and apologized- I don't have anything to be angry with." She meets Hana's eyes again with a measured gaze, lips twitching slightly. "And, uh… what I said about running away… from daddy issues." She fumbles with her words. "That was uncalled for."

What the hell was going on? The mood had switched in the complete opposite direction. "I shouldn't have kicked you in the first place," says Hana quickly, a strenuous sort of relief pooling in the air, thick as blood. Their first and hopefully last argument was cooling down as quickly as it had flared up, for which Hana is thankful. She doesn't know how to deal with… with people. Especially angry people.

Especially angry people that… are sort of growing on her.

She studies Tara, who is sheepishly rubbing her short, wild hair. It's only now that she notices the web of band-aids crisscrossing the older girl's knuckles, pale against her tanned skin.

And Hana admits, finally, "It's true that I… I lied."

That's right. Tara knows more about Hana than is safe for either of them. A full name, a location, age, current health condition. The risk of Talon getting ahold of the Lee family, in Hana's mind, is at an all-time high.

Tara brings Hana's attention back to the present with an arched eyebrow and incredulous tone. "Of course you did. D'you seriously think Amin and I believed that your name was _Tokki?_ What sort of weird name is that?"

Sure, it was a stupid name, but Genji's limited command of Korean heavily narrowed the pool of options. She grips her bracelet a little tighter. "I'm not the one who came up with it."

The girl shoots Hana a questioning look. The sun's glare shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminates a halo of dust around her head, flickering softly in the artificial lighting. "Then who did?"

Hana opens Amin's holoboard and clicks on the StarCraft icon without much heart. "A friend," she mumbles. _A brother._ She can almost imagine Genji balled up on the floor, laughing like he's dying over this entire ridiculous confrontation.

She switches the topic to something more benign- "Your nose is… well, I, uh, punched you. Are you okay?"

Tara's harsh laugh grates on Hana's ears. "You call that a _punch?_ Kiddo, you ain't gonna get anywhere with a wimpy little slap like that. Doubt you've ever been in a real fight before."

"You think so?" asks Hana dryly. She wishes Tara was right. The memory of blood coating her fingers when she pounded that anonymous Talon agent's skull into the pavement hasn't been blurred by time or the trauma from the incident at all, like she'd expected it to. It remains so painfully vivid- the way brain matter and fluid dripped from the jagged orifice in the man's skull, crusted w-

"Hana?" Tara ventures cautiously. She's staring.

Hana swallows, hard. Her throat feels like sandpaper.

"Hey." Tara gives Hana's shoulder a little shake. She slaps Tara's hand away without a second thought.

"Don't touch me," she says without bite. "Ever." A flush of embarrassment spreads across her face, but she decides, firmly, that this is a necessary action. She needs to set boundaries _now,_ before Tara mistakenly believes that randomly poking her is okay. Because it is most definitely _not._

Hana focuses on the screen in front of her. "Are you logged in yet?"

Instead of responding, Tara closes down her holoboard with a frown. Hana blinks. "W-What are you doing?"

"Dude," the older girl says slowly. "I'm real sorry if I spooked you. By, er, grabbing you like that." She makes a vague arm-swinging movement that's probably supposed to represent her seizing the front of Hana's blouse. "I have some anger issues… mood swings, and the like. But- I would never actually... hurt you. So…"

So that explains Tara's rather extreme and sudden change in temperament. There's raw guilt in her words, as saturated in her voice as Tracer's had been over the transceiver. It produces a similar effect, too- Hana immediately feels like a terrible person.

"Oh. No, no," she says quickly, shutting down Amin's holoboard as well. "I'm not scared of you."

Tara raises an eyebrow again, and Hana, realizing how impetuous she must sound, amends, "I mean- It has nothing to do with you." The tips of her ears are burning red, and she's glad that her hair hides them so well.

She finishes, "I just don't like being touched in general. By _anyone._ " Except Genji. "It's a problem with me, not a problem with you."

The girl runs a hand through her hair. "Regardless of who's problem it is, it's still a problem," she says, sounding just a tad bit relieved.

Hana blinks. She'd never thought of it that way.

Maybe because it's not true?

"No, it's something _I_ have to deal with," Hana says firmly. She taps her holoboard. "Now are we going to play, or what?"

* * *

Hana reigns herself, playing just well enough to beat Tara and nothing more, until Amin comes back at around six o'clock, appearing especially serene in her long grey coat. To Hana's relief (and Tara's relief as well, if her quiet exhalation of breath is any indication), Amin doesn't seem to notice Tara's slightly bruised nose. She hums and tries to cook them chicken for dinner, despite not actually being able to consume food. Tara grumbles about how it tastes like a burnt tire. Hana assures the flustered Omnic that it tastes delicious.

Sneaking out onto the balcony after Amin starts charging her battery turns out to be a terrible idea. Tara notices Hana's absence almost immediately, and nearly catches her in the act of calling Tracer. Only some quick fumbling and an especially big coat pocket saves her from a copious explanation as to why she has a military-grade transceiver on her person, and what she was about to do with it.

Tara is a mystery to her, but then again, Hana almost never has clear-cut impressions of people. Mr. Seon had scared her, certainly, but she had never quite understood why he did the horrible things he did, so he remained a comic-book villain in her life: comically evil for the sake of being comically evil, with no redeemable qualities to speak of, and no Batman to hunt him down. The stranger that was her mother had motives as unclear as her speech when she was drunk- never directly abusing her, but allowing others to kick her to the dust if they so wanted. Tracer was everything she had hoped and everything she had desperately wished not to be true all at once, and thinking about Genji caused physical pain in her head from all the _why's_ and _what's_ and _how's._

The Lees were very much the same way. In the beginning, Tara seemed to be about as friendly as Talon to her, while Amin was conversely _too_ friendly to be real.

Which is why Hana is so at loss for words when Tara doesn't leave Hana on the balcony alone even after Hana hides the transceiver, clearly doing nothing worthy of suspicion. The older girl approaches the railing, next to Hana.

"Wotcha doing out here?" she asks gruffly. Awkwardly. It's a little charming and Hana holds back a chuckle.

"Looking out of the city. Isn't it pretty?" She turns towards the horizon, set ablaze by a setting sun. The sky is already a deep indigo, illuminated by a backdrop of neon city lights spiraling high into the air, scattered, blinking, in the distance. Her heart swells. The coast had been gorgeous, but Hana finds herself quite liking this urban sort of dwelling as well.

It's odd to think that this is her first time experiencing this feeling when she's lived in Busan her entire life, and this remarkable view was just outside her window. _What a waste of a life I've led._

"Guess so," says Tara dubiously. "Isn't it cold outside, though? Amin was getting worried you'd catch a cold."

That's not true at all; Hana had checked to make sure that Amin was turned off at the charging system. Tara was suspicious and came out to investigate out of her own volition.

Instead of calling her out, Hana leans over the railing, suspended over the stories of nothingness. _No point in antagonizing her any further._ "Amin thinks humans are a lot more fragile than they actually are," she says breezily.

Tara rubs at one bare arm with a shiver. "Fragile? Hardly. Dumb? Probably, because it _is_ too cold outside. Get your ass back in here."

"Tara, try not to swear at our guest," came the soothingly female voice of Amin from behind the two. Hana turns to see the Omnic backlit by the living room, standing poised at the center of the doorframe. She doesn't need to look at Tara to know that the girl is scowling.

"Mom-"

"-I am not finished," Amin continued, voice floating like a melody. She clasps her hands together, blue lights dimming slightly. "I don't want my girls getting into fights, either. _Especially_ not with each other."

All significance of Amin somehow noticing that Tara and Hana had gotten into a fight, however brief, is lost on Hana when she wonders at the words Amin used.

 _My girls_. Not _you girls_ , and not _you and my girl._

Tara rubs at her head again, that sheepish look crossing her face, at odds with her tough delinquent look. "Knew you would notice," she mumbles under her breath. "You were always good at that sorta thing, huh?"

Amin takes the compliment with a lighthearted chuckle. "Yes, so be careful. Keep safe." Her head swivels on a silvery neck of wires to look directly at Hana and nods ever so slightly. Hana swallows and nods back.

A silent assurance.

* * *

That night, an hour after Tara is snoring into a Hello Kitty pillow, Hana drowns her guilt with thoughts of what will happen if she doesn't leave the Lee family in due time. She thinks apologetically, as she grabs her duffel bag, _I'm sorry for breaking my promise. Amin._

The threshold creaks under the weight of Hana's booted feet. She steps out of the apartment with a hood pulled low over her head. It's one of Tara's old raincoats that she swears she will return, after she gets back from her night walk, before the Lee household is even awake tomorrow morning.

Once Hana is standing outside the apartment complex, staring out into the glittering expanse of Busan, her transceiver emits a beep. She inspects the screen, its characteristic blackness having been replaced by a digital recreation of a map to Juseong Station.

Hana takes a deep breath. DVA grins confidently. The two press the red button.

"Tracer? I'm in location…"

* * *

 

_Was super busy this week, so this chapter was a bit delayed- sorry! Also I rewrote it about six times because the original version contained far too more foreshadowing than was necessary. The final document, as you see here, turned out twice as long as the original._

_My dad is visiting me and my mom for the next couple weeks, so uploads will be a little erratic. But I promise you next chapter will have some sweet action, and... another Overwatch member introduction into the story? Hmm, we'll see!_

_Cultural Notes:  
PC cafés, also known as PC rooms or 'PC bangs' in Korean, are basically Internet cafés specifically situated towards gaming. The room(s) are filled with computers with pre-installed games and high Wi-Fi speeds, making it an ideal place for students to meet up with their friends after school and play together._

_Fun fact: StarCraft, League of Legends, and Overwatch are all very popular games in these cafés, with League being the most played game for many years. Very recently, Overwatch has overtaken that number one spot and has become the most played game in PC cafés in Korea!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was super busy this week, so this chapter was a bit delayed- sorry! Also I rewrote it about six times because the original version contained far too more foreshadowing than was necessary. The final document, as you see here, turned out twice as long as the original.
> 
> My dad is visiting me and my mom for the next couple weeks, so uploads will be a little erratic. But I promise you next chapter will have some sweet action, and... another Overwatch member introduction into the story? Hmm, we'll see!
> 
> Cultural Notes:  
> PC cafés, also known as PC rooms or 'PC bangs' in Korean, are basically Internet cafés specifically situated towards gaming. The room(s) are filled with computers with pre-installed games and high Wi-Fi speeds, making it an ideal place for students to meet up with their friends after school and play together.
> 
> Fun fact: StarCraft, League of Legends, and Overwatch are all very popular games in these cafés, with League being the most played game for many years. Very recently, Overwatch has overtaken that number one spot and has become the most played game in PC cafés in Korea!


	14. Chapter 14

"That will be 2,000 won, please."

Hana hands over the money and pockets her new packet of bubblegum. The teenage girl behind the counter blinks at her tiredly. She can only guess what the girl is thinking right now, as a strange little girl leaves the gas station she works at past midnight, carrying a large duffel bag and what seems to be a walkie-talkie.

" _You got your gum, love?_ " Tracer's tinny voice sounds amused. Hana pads over to the sidewalk, popping a piece into her mouth. She relishes in the sweet chewiness with a low sigh. Pedestrians casually stroll past her without a second glance; a benefit to being in a large city with too many people to get to know.

"Yeah," she says, jaw working against the gum. The path she's to take is marked on her transceiver in bright red. According to the blinking blue dot marking her location on the map, she's fairly close to Jungsoo Station. "What do I do if there really are Talon agents there?"

Her transceiver buzzes in her hand as Tracer hums in consideration. Her voice is filled with scorn. " _Don't get close to the bloody buggers. Just watch from a distance. They aren't gonna be dressed up in gear, so be suspicious of everyone you see, capische?"_

"Already am," Hana jokes. She looks up from the transceiver to the street ahead of her. Wandering around at night alone in a city always held such a negative connotation to her, and yet the alleys she cross hold a familiar warmth to them. Besides, the strong ambient lighting of the city and abundance of street lamps make sure that nothing is ever too heavily shadowed.

It's not just the streets themselves that feel friendly. There are people here- not the oppressive crowds that filled the city in the morning, but friends in small groups, laughing and talking as if there is no difference between walking in the night and walking in the day.

 _Friends._ Hana is a gamer, but she plays solo. There's a whole slew of people she could've become friends with if she'd just _tried…_

She watches longingly as a gaggle of girls around her age step from a high-end shoe store with arms linked. They giggle hysterically over something- she catches them say 'cute clerk,' and so once they're out of sight, she peers through the windows of the store.

And true to their word, there's a cute clerk there. He's tall, has dark, swept-back hair, and hums along to the tune of the K-pop song playing over the speakers, baseball cap bobbing along to the beat. It's an A-PINK song, and Hana is hit by the sudden memory of Genji. She suspects that if she were any other girl with a social life and romantic interests, she would run in, buy something small just to talk to the boy, and then run out, giggling like a fool.

Tracer's voice blares loud in the silence. " _Hana? You haven't been movin' for a good minute now."_

Oh, yes. Of course there's a GPS tracker in the transceiver. Feeling a little bit peeved that Tracer had been monitoring her progress this entire time without telling her, she continues down the street.

The night drifts on without much indication of letting up. If anything, the skies get even darker. Hana watches the pedestrians walking alongside her apprehensively, though none seem to be following or even paying attention to her.

One group of what appears to be high-school students do mull around the area Hana is traversing for a while. She catches one of the girls staring at her from across the street, and she hurriedly picks up the pace.

When she's just a block away from the station, Tracer speaks up. " _Hana, can'ya open up your bag?_ "

The duffel bag? Hana kneels onto the ground and unzips it. She had already looked through its contents after Genji had been shot, trying to find something to help with his wound. "What am I looking for?"

" _The side pocket. It should be hidden inside the seam of the lower right corner of the bag._ " The Brit sounds a little somber, which is definitely not a good sign.

A secret pocket? She hadn't noticed it. _Sneaky bastards._ Hana digs through the various items cluttering the bag, _none of which had been useful in treating Genji,_ DVA thinks with indignation, before finding the telltale zipper marking the pocket. "I… didn't notice this being here before."

" _I was hoping you wouldn't have to, love. Cheers to Talon,_ " says Tracer sourly. " _Have you seen wot's in there, then?"_

Hana reaches into the pocket and pulls out something long and dark. _A gun._

It's heavier than she'd expected it to be- a cool weight in her hand, covered in smooth black matte. It's also larger than she'd expected it to be, too, with the muzzle extending far past her hand, though her fingers close around its handle with relative ease. It doesn't look very much like a traditional gun, like you'd seen in the movies- the front is bulky and is built around her hand.

" _AT-03 pulse pistol. Nifty little thing,_ " explains Tracer without much heart. " _We weren't really planning on you using it, so I'm gonna give you a quick run-down on how to shoot a gun, okay?_ "

Hana's killed someone before. The thought of murder- _no, not murder, self-defense_ \- it shouldn't feel so terrible to her now, should it? She'd _bashed_ some man's head in using a fucking _sidewalk_. Shooting a gun, in comparison, should feel humane.

"Okay," she breathes. The gun looks chillingly similar to the one that Talon grunt had used on Genji.

" _First off, don't point it at anyone if they aren't explicitly threatening you. We don't want the cops on your tail along with Talon- that would just be a blood brilliant mess,"_ says Tracer with an almost comical amount of enthusiasm. A mechanical rustle of paper hisses through the transceiver. " _Oh, and- er- there's no safety on the gun! Meaning it's all loaded and ready to shoot, yeah? Keep it pointing away from you at all times. And put it on top of the stuff in your bag, so that's it easy to reach but hard to see."_

"Okay," Hana repeats slowly, "but I really don't know how-"

" _That's where the good news is at! It's a fat lot easier than the movies make it look,_ " says Tracer brightly. And just like that, she's off again, with her mile-a-minute mouth. " _It's just point and click, love- point and click. The thing's loaded with pulse ammo, not bullets, so it doesn't leave behind any spent shells or lead stuck in stuff. Minimize the evidence, yeah? Feel free to fire it off like a maniac."_

Hana's an RTS specialist, but she's played her fair share of first-person shooters before- all of which she had excelled at. Still, shooting up a six-bit character is fairly different from shooting up a living human being. She racks her brain for what little she can recall about guns. "Won't there be any… recoil?"

Tracer hums in consideration. _"There'll be a bit of recoil but see, we've been working on that model, yeah? Got down the recoil pretty damn far. Still, just make sure you keep the gun away from your face so it doesn't bash your nose or nothing when you shoot it off. If you gotta send the recoil anywhere, you bring up your arms a little, so don't lock your elbows._ "

Hana understood perhaps half of what Tracer had just said, but she mumbles a "Got it" anyways. She inspects the pulse pistol in the half-light of the streetlamps before placing it with exaggerated carefulness on the top of her duffel bag, as if it were as fragile as glass.

The gun brings more anxiety to Hana's nerves than relief, and the rest of the way to Jungsoo Station is decidedly more tense. Tracer jokes about funny things she's done in past missions ( _"Can you imagine recalling right on top of a kangaroo?")_ while Hana laughs along, mind awhirl with thoughts of blood falling onto these peaceful streets.

Jungsoo Station is as brightly lit as the rest of the city, but unlike the other places she's walked through, there are almost no people meandering about. Civilians, Talon, nobody. She reports to this Tracer, who reacts with concern. " _Well, something ain't right, then. Talon should definitely be there. Winston's never wrong, see…"_

Hana ducks behind a stunted tree near an apartment, from where the station is clearly visible. The underground subways of Korea were always marked by a stairway that descended directly into the ground, lined with railings and signs declaring names and destination. Jungsoo Station is no different- it's so typical with its silvers and pale blues, its blinking neon sign proclaiming 정수 역, that Hana feels an innate suspicion for the place.

Part of this suspicion stems from the fact that, unlike the other parts of town, there are no people here. The back of her neck prickles at the eerie absence of motion. "You think it's a trap? Maybe-"

An unfamiliar voice pierces the quiet. "Hello?"

Hana curses and turns of the transceiver with a stab of a thumb before she looks in the direction of the voice. It's the teenage boy from the store, the one that the other girls had found so cute. He's got a maroon jacket on now, and a backpack is slung over one shoulder, marking him as a college student. _The fuck is he doing here? It isn't safe._

It takes a moment for her to realize that he's directing the question at her. People never really approached Hana, and consequently never really talked to her, either. How is she to handle this all?

She tucks the transceiver into her coat pocket and tries not to scowl. How suspicious she must appear, hiding behind a tree and muttering to herself. "Er… hello?"

The clerk boy tugs at the back of his baseball cap, head slightly tilted as he smiles awkwardly. His voice is deep and calming. "I saw you… you were wandering around the store I work at, right? I was wondering if you were lost or something."

"I'm fine," Hana says shortly. How could she warn this boy? Get him out of here, before Talon suspects him of anything for talking to her? She draws herself up with what little pride she can still muster, steadying her hands and drawing her eyebrows together into a condescending glare. "Nothing's wrong. Go home."

The boy continues to hover uncertainly. "Look here-"

He reaches for the gun at his hip.

_The gun-_

Hana flies into motion at the same speed she sends Zergs at her enemies in StarCraft- in an instant, the pulse pistol is in her hand, and in another instant, blue blitzes of light are jetting off from her gun directly at the boy.

Zero hesitation. Shooting him was her knee-jerk reflex.

It happens all too quickly- three of the lights directly hit his chest, one after the other, and he tumbles to the asphalt like a puppet with cut strings, his gun still hanging untouched on his person. Smoke drifts from his torso, filling the air with the suddenly disgusting smell of cooked meat.

The clerk boy didn't even have time to scream or draw his gun- he'd passed with unnervingly little fanfare. She presses a hand to her mouth, silently gagging at the scent. Draws a few steps back.

And so the fight is over, just like that- a sudden and silent blur of motion. She watches the motionless lump on the ground, wondering if the pulse pistol had really done enough damage to put him down permanently. Apparently it did, because he doesn't get back up.

 _My second kill,_ she thinks dully. And it was some boy from a store. Had he always been a Talon agent? How long had he been posing at the store for, pretending to be a clerk, waiting for Hana to show up?

_Maybe they forced him to do this. Maybe they threatened him, or his family-_

_Stop,_ DVA thinks coldly, and snuffs out Hana's feelings with a huff of icy breath.

She tosses the gun into her bag with none of the carefulness from before and calls Tracer again, approaching the corpse with small, quick steps. Tracer is beside herself with worry on the other side- " _HANA! HANA, WHAT HAPPENED? Are you okay?"_

"I'm fine," she reassures, and she thanks the heavens that her voice doesn't come out as shaky as she feels. "Someone…" _offered help, and I killed them-_ "-someone attacked me, so I had to use the pulse pistol."

Tracer masks her concern with ease, and her words are straightforward. " _Is this the first time you've seen them? This is important. We need to know if they're following you._ "

Hana wants to lie _no, I've never seen them before,_ but Tracer's intensity convinces her of otherwise. "He was a clerk at some store I walked past." She kneels by his still-smoking body. He hadn't died as peacefully as they showed in movies- his eyes were still wide open, as was his mouth, which gaped with a scream that would never be released. And in his ear was something peculiar…

" _Is he armed with anything?_ " Tracer asks, and Hana can hear frantic typing through the transceiver.

"A gun," she replies, and carefully plucks the earpiece from his ear and puts it in her own. Sure enough, she could hear the voices of what she presumed were Talon agents on the other side-

" _-W3,TROW3, RESPOND IMMEDIATELY. TROW3, WHERE ARE YOUR COORDINATES?"_

Responding with fake coordinates seems logical, but on the other hand, there's no way she can imitate Clerk Boy's deep voice. So instead, she says to Tracer: "I've got ahold of his earpiece."

" _HALF OF THE GUARDS, ABANDON POST. GO LOOK FOR HER. BALLAD SECT, RENDEZVOUS TO TROW3'S COORDINATE. CUT THE LINE, THEY MIGHT-_ "

The earpiece pops and fizzles out. Hana tosses it away, steps on it with her foot. Grinds it into the asphalt with her heel until she feels it shatter like an eggshell. Her legs move slowly, and then gradually speed up to become a blur as she runs back towards the twisted little tree, because now they're onto her, and she's _dead._

" _Hana, what's going on? Y-"_

"They know where I am," she says breathlessly into the transceiver. _Thud, thud, thud,_ her boots pound into the ground to the rhythm of her heart, beating ever faster. When she stops by the tree she pulls out the gun again, clenching the handle like it's her lifeline. "They're coming for me. Tracer, Tracer, what do I- what do I _do?_ "

_TELL ME WHAT TO DO._

Tracer is quick to reply, because of course she knows what to do- she's the legendary _Lena Oxton_ \- hotshot pilot of the Slipstream, Overwatch spokeswoman, agent extraordinaire.

Her voice is full of unsuppressed urgency. _"Oh, bollocks- stay calm, love, and head over to-"_

 _BANG!_ Hana screams and nearly drops the transceiver when something shoots past her face, bright purple in color and too fast to clearly make out. It's launched with enough velocity to stick into the tree's grizzled bark, and Hana is bewildered to see that it's a _dart._

_A sniper?_

The words sound ridiculous in her head, but it must be true because there's not a soul in sight- just Clerk Boy, who's still a smoking pile of meat on the ground a good twenty feet away. She looks wildly about for the elusive sniper but they wear the darkness like a mask, and so she begins to run towards somewhere with lots of _people,_ because if the world is going to hell in a handbasket then Hana might as well seek out the crowds she hates so much.

_BANG. BANG._

_Don't turn around, don't turn around, just keep going-_

Tracer is yelling something from the transceiver when Hana rounds a corner and slams headlong into a Talon agent.

Both let out a startled 'umph', and Hana's just slightly faster with her recovery. She's just slightly faster with her gun, too, and in an instant the agent is dead on her feet because at close range missing is impossible. All five bullets (pulses? Lasers?) she fires off hits the woman's body, sending her falling to the ground with grim finality.

The impact of their crash sends both the agent's gun and Hana's transceiver spinning away into the darkness. In Hana's adrenaline-addled mind, DVA screams _No, we need that!_ and so she foolishly stops to recover the lost object in the darkness somehow-

Her efforts are rewarded by another BANG, and white-hot pain streaks across her right arm. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that a dart has grazed her, and spine-tingling fear rises like a scream in Hana's bones-

_-they can see me, but I can't see them-_

-moving her to take off into the tangle of glittering streets. Leaving the transceiver forgotten somewhere on the ground.

People turn and stare as she rushes past them, duffel bag dangling from her shoulder. Not that Hana cares, really. She's so glad to see them there that she almost smiles, because miraculously, none of them are _attacking_ her.

Until a grizzled old man steps from the awning of his DVD store with another gun. Maybe it's the darkness, maybe it's the rush of the night- not a single person notices.

He looks like-

He looks like a harmless old _harabuji._

Hana draws first, because Hana always draws first. The trigger motion feels smoother now. When the man crumples to the ground, smoke wisping from his chest, the screaming starts. Some men start herding their respective groups away from the scene with almost military precision, leaving Hana suddenly alone. Her head throbs with pain; why does everything hurt so much?

The teenage girls from the store run right past her, phones clutched in-hand, adding to the din with the clicking of heels. With a sudden strike of inspiration Hana tails after them, tucking the gun into her pocket, looking like just another innocent civilian running from some crazed shooter. Like she suspects, nobody notices anything.

_Nobody ever notices anything._

She branches off from the group in front of a quaint little dumpling shop, pausing to catch her breath, filling the brisk air with hot steam. Her hands are clammy against her knees as she bends over, gasping and choking for air. Her lungs are on fire from all the running she's been doing- no, wait, they hurt so much more than they should.

 _The dart._ She'd totally forgotten about the long scratch on her arm. Now that she's stopped moving, she can clearly feel the steady creep of crimson wetness over her shoulder… and it burns like _hell._

Poison? Was there some sort of toxin in the dart? That would explain why the sniper hadn't been using a traditional bullet. Hana curses, because _fuck_ does it sting, and she manages to get into the dumpling store before she all but collapses into a seat.

It's empty- the owners and patrons must've fled at the sound of the fighting. The power is off, and the only source of light she has is the glittering lines of neon in the city.

If she doesn't figure out where to go next, this little dumpling store will be her final resting spot.

Hana hunkers down in the seat, keeping her head clear of the window, hoping that from the outside, the little shop appears abandoned. The plastic seat is cold and hard where it presses into her back. She wheezes as her throat constricts, little puffs of breath appearing like mist in the dark air.

 _Think of a way out,_ DVA urges, but Hana's mind is so done with everything that she just sits there and shivers as the night air bites through her coat.

As far as she's concerned, this is the end. It had been a surprisingly long run, as Hana hadn't thought she'd even survive the first few hours without Genji. She is a stranger in her own hometown, with nobody she can return to without endangering their lives.

Nobody to miss her when she's gone.

 _Mother,_ she thinks bitterly, and her eyes are burning, dry stones. _You would laugh if you saw me now, right? You always laughed._

_What sort of death is this, anyways? I'm cornered. Afraid. Tired. Lonely._

Her watch beeps- 2:00 in the night. Hana exhales a shuddering breath.

_Will Amin and Tara look for me?_

The clinking of metal, the soft thud of a footstep. Someone is at the door, blocked from Hana's vision by a table leg. Hana doesn't freeze up. She just reaches for her gun.

She draws first, because she always draws first-

-and then the gun blasts to pieces in her hand with a sharp _ping,_ because for the first time today someone is even faster than she is.

Shrapnel is sent flying everywhere, cracking against the window with the sound of pebbles hitting glass, cutting up her fingers. Hana ducks back down into her seat, bloody hand scrambling for the bag. There aren't any other weapons in the secret pocket, except…

Hana spots a glint of green in the void of the bag's opening. One of Genji's shurikens are still wedged between a metal water bottle and bundle of rope.

Somewhere in her heart, she suspects that the metal of the little weapon is cold, like ice. She can't feel it, though. Her fingers are dead and numb, just like the rest of her will be in a moment.

The figure steps into the room, casual. Unhurried. A black shadow in the darkness of the room. Hana doesn't have the arm for throwing, so instead of flinging the shuriken at the agent, she launches herself at him with a wordless snarl.

She doesn't even get a foot closer to the Talon agent when fingers close around her wrist, a hand is on her left shoulder, and Hana is whirled around and slammed into the wall. The impact knocks her breathless, and the shuriken falls from her captive fingers.

She closes her eyes when she hears it clatter on the ground, as if from a great distance away. _It's over, then._

Silence fills the air, disrupted only by Hana's heavy breathing.

Then-

A honey-smooth voice drawls through the still air, bringing with it the last words Hana had expected:

"Why, this pretty little weapon is Genji's, ain't it?"

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes:
> 
> Harabuji- grandpa.
> 
> 정수 역- Jungsoo Station in Korean.
> 
> Bollocks- British slang that literally means 'balls. Used similarly to 'darn.'
> 
> Buggers- More British slang! Someone annoying, though just 'bugger' can be used when something goes wrong (like 'Oh, bugger' as opposed to 'Oh, darn.')
> 
> Cultural Notes:
> 
> Safety: Hana mentions that Korea's streets feel very safe. I did some research on tourist reviews on Korea to get more of a sense of city life, and many of them talk about how safe Korea feels in general- little children walk the streets on their own without parent supervision and end up fine, and people don't feel like they're going to get mugged at night. Part of this has to do with the very low crime rates in Korea, though some attribute it to the illegality of guns there. (Though it must be said that while there aren't many physical crimes or homicides, many news reports surrounding the recently impeached South Korean president show that corruption is a problem.)
> 
> Military training: I specifically included the line "Some men start herding their respective groups away from the scene with almost military precision, leaving Hana suddenly alone" to reflect on the fact that in South Korea, all males between the ages of 18 and 35 must take mandatory military service for between 21 and 24 months, depending on their branch of service. Which is interesting because we don't do that where I live (the U.S.), as we have a rather large population size that allows for an ample amount of volunteers.
> 
> Because of this, I concluded that in a situation with random guns firing off, I would expect there to be at least some people in the crowd to know what to do.
> 
> A/N:  
> Anyways! As always, thank you for reading this chapter, and thank you for posting so many wonderful reviews. Life is still really hectic right now, so I'm having trouble finding time to write, but I'm really excited for the installment of this chapter. Researching all this has been such a great experience for me.
> 
> McCree is a member of Blackwatch, not Overwatch, but I hinted at an Overwatch member last chapter because it would be pretty obvious if I said Blackwatch. My bad ;)


	15. dry river

Whoever this, this _man_ is, he lets go of her. With the sudden release of support, Hana's unsteady legs nearly give out.

Much to her humiliation, the man catches her by the shoulder and actually _twirls_ her into a standing position, as if he thinks he's some sort of action hero. A thick musk of smoke hangs around him, deep-rooted in his very being. "Whoa there, cowgi-"

"Don't touch me," Hana spits, and pushes him away with what little strength she can muster. She staggers, leans against the wall. The movement sends her head spinning like a top. Through her blurry gaze, she can see the man raise his hands up in the universal gesture of _whoops, sorry._

That slow, twangy drawl starts up again. "Just trying to help, little missy."

_What the fuck?_

She searches the wall for a light switch with one blindly scrabbling hand. When she finds it, she flicks them on, determined to see who this was, and how they knew Genji…

…and a walking anachronism springs to life right before her eyes.

_Is this is a hallucination?_

She rubs her eyes. She blinks rapidly. Neither dispel the image that slouches in front of her, between two of the tables.

Standing before Hana Song is the singlemost _American_ man she has _ever_ laid eyes on, on TV and otherwise.

He has brown, scruffy hair that surrounds his tan, angled face like a scarf. Dark eyes glint roguishly from where they sit deep-set around a sharp nose, staring at Hana from underneath bushy eyebrows. Tucked around his hat is a Stetson- an _actual cowboy hat,_ and are those fucking _bullet casings_ wrapped above its brim?

In the flickering light, she can see that he's much larger than her in both height and breadth. There are- there are actual _spurs_ on his fucking boots. His body is draped in a maroon poncho(?), but even then she can still see that one of his arms has been replaced by a wicked-looking prosthetic.

She half expects him to hop outside, grab his horse, and then ride off into the sunset. He doesn't.

So she demands, still half convinced that the dart's poison is responsible for this strange apparition, "Who _are_ you?" Because if this really is a Talon agent, then she's going to start laughing like she's dying. Partly because she really is dying, and partly because she's about to be executed by a cowboy.

In Korea.

In a dumpling shop.

_That knows Genji,_ Hana reminds herself hopefully. DVA snorts in derision.

"I'm 'fraid I don't understand Korean much," says the man. "I speak three languages- plain ol' American English, Spanish, and firepower." He pats his revolver. It's only then that Hana realizes that she's been speaking in Korean this entire time.

_Damn, I'm a mess._ Calm, mature, calm, mature. Hana composes herself, reminding herself that she is once again in the presence of a stranger.

The proverbial mask slides into place, hiding away all traces of the pain she can feel needling away in her arm. Rubbing at her temple with one hand, she reiterates tiredly in sharp English, "I don't _know_ you. Who are you?"

The cowboy grins, slow and assured. "M'name's McCree. Jesse McCree." He sticks out a gloved hand, obviously expecting Hana to shake it.

His too-casual air, the way he holds himself, and even how he wants to shake some random fugitive girl's hand- all of that reminds her of her first encounter with Ana Amari-nim. Ignoring the hand, she asks crossly, "How do you know Genji?"

Jesse McCree retracts his hand, seemingly unoffended (just like that woman again). "I was friends with 'im. Back in the original Blackwatch."

Blackwatch? Hana stares, confused, as she tries to piece this random bit of information together with what she knows about Genji.

The conclusion she draws causes more confusion than it alleviates. "Genji was in _Blackwatch?_ "

The cowboy shrugs. "If he were in Overwatch, wouldn't you have heard of 'im? Cool man like that. Shouldn't be so hard to believe."

Maybe she shouldn't be surprised in principle, but- but to associate Blackwatch with her friendly neighborhood cyborg seems like such a stretch.

Blackwatch wasn't just a terrible organization; it was the downfall of Overwatch.

Hana was overly familiar with the story; almost everyone in South Korea was. At the head of Blackwatch had sat one Mr. Gabriel Reyes, an embittered commander who eventually brought down the Swiss HQ on top of both himself and comrade-turned-enemy Strike Commander Morrison- the final nail in the political coffin. The end of a long and illustrious era went out with a literal bang.

As Hana understood it, the world's image of noble, virtuous Overwatch shattered the instant corruption charges were brought forth by the U.N., as well as the uncovering of Overwatch's literal dark side- Blackwatch. As more and more of what Blackwatch had done was eventually discovered (assassinations, interrogations, the recruitment of criminals on Death Row…) the debate had turned from whether or not members of Blackwatch should be prosecuted to whether Overwatch should still exist, as Overwatch had allowed Blackwatch to operate like this right underneath its nose.

Or, if you believe the whispered rumors, _hand-in-hand_ with Overwatch.

Genji was _nothing_ like Blackwatch's ilk. He was gentle- he was kind to her, so kind, he was-

"He was an assassin," drawls McCree, lighting up a cigarillo with the fluidity of one that had performed the action many times before. His face glows orange from the cheery little flame. "Not exactly a criminal, but pretty damn close, cos being in Blackwatch does that to a man." He waves a lazy hand. "Of course, don't let that affect your opinion of him. Wasn't his fault none."

"Should I let that affect my opinion of _you?_ " snaps Hana. Because really, it doesn't matter to her what Genji had done in the past. Blackwatch or no Blackwatch, assassin or no assassin, he'd _saved_ her. On the other hand, this cowboy couldn't be more suspicious if he tried.

McCree flicks off the lights carefully. "Don't care nothing about yer opinion. I'm just here to get you out. As an escort, y'could say." He exhales and a silver stream of smoke wisps from his lips, twisting and turning into the ceiling.

The tall, grizzled man steps purposefully from the dumpling shop, leaving Hana to stumble after him, completely bewildered. What the hell was this cowboy saying? An escort? Had Tracer and Winston not given up on her after all?

"You- you're with the new Overwatch?"

"Ain't nothing new about this reformed Overwatch," growls McCree. He drags a hand through his hair, underneath that broad-brimmed hat, spurs clinking loudly on the silent street. "It's built of the same people as 'old' Overwatch- Winston, Tracer, Ms. Ana… built of the same principles, too. They were all too happy to let Gabe and the rest go down into the waves while they jumped ship. I betcha anythin' that they'd do it all again."

She blinks bleary-eyed at the cowboy. "Do _what…_ all again?" It feels like cotton has been stuffed in between Hana's ears, filling her head with an uncomfortable fuzziness. Hana supposes that it's the effects of the dart's poison. Still, this sounds important, so instead of collapsing into a pile, she struggles to stay awake and keep listening.

It does not occur to her that McCree shouldn't know anything about the reformation of Overwatch if he's not a part of it.

McCree pauses and turns, the red fabric of his poncho swirling with the movement. His face is unreadable, overshadowed by the brim of his hat.

After a long moment, he says gruffly, "Forget about it. Don't worry your purty little head with this load of nonsense."

Hana's sure there's more to Cowman's outburst- much more- but at the moment she has many more pressing matters to attend to. That is to say, the fact they're in the middle of the street, visible to every Talon agent in Busan.

She scoots closer to McCree. "Where are you taking me? And-" and Hana thinks it's ridiculous that she hadn't thought of this earlier- "if you're not a part of Overwatch, then what the _hell_ are you doing here?" _Do you know how out-of-place you look?_

McCree starts off down the street with another swish of his cloak. The distant whistle of cars are faint even in the relative quiet- civilization is a long way ahead of them. How ironic that they were in the second most populous region of Korea.

"I'm here because I'm _not_ a part of Overwatch. Y'see, they're not all too keen on sendin' agents to the middle of fuckin' South Korea, where all the shit's already gone down and cooled off. Overwatch comin' here will be equated to Overwatch meddling in peaceful affairs, and Overwatch meddling in peaceful affairs is just one more reason for them U.N. bastards to grind out a new Petras Act."

His voice tilts up with amusement. "'M not even pretending to act all official-like. 'M acting independently. The U.N. and Overwatch can't do nothing about that, no sir."

Hana had no trouble deciphering Genji's English through his Japanese accent, but this, this English that was actually from America? She has to take so much time just to process one simple sentence. As she struggles to keep up with McCree's long strides, she also struggles to understand what he'd just said.

And so it takes a while for her to realize he's avoided her question entirely.

"No," she says in fumbling English. A sharp pain shoots through her temple, and she quickly hides an involuntary frown. "Give me- give me a straight answer. How did you find me? _What's your motivation?_ "

McCree pauses for a moment. In the low light, his sharp jaw and hat looks more menacing than comical, as was her initial impression of him. Then a dry chuckle spills from his mouth, as wispy and twirling as cigarette smoke.

"Hm. I suppose you're right. That wasn't a straight answer at all, was it?"

Hana glares. "Y-"

Someone steps out from a doorway behind them, and while Hana doesn't see who it is, she immediately senses that they're there. Her veins seem to freeze like ice as she spins around, reaching for her gun- the one that got blown to pieces-

The next few moments happen in the space of one second.

McCree's hand comes down- slides his gun from his holster- swings up the long weapon to eye level- recoil sends the gun's muzzle flicking up as it goes _BANG!_

All in one sweeping arc of motion, without even a pause taken to aim.

The poor Talon agent crumples to the concrete, gun clattering from his hand. Hana blinks, because all of a sudden, the goofy cowman feels _much_ more dangerous.

McCree strides over to the corpse and tosses Hana its gun, with a casualness that totally belies the fact that he'd just killed a man. She just barely manages to catch it, mumbling a "thanks" as she wonders if all former Overwatch/Blackwatch agents could do shit like this.

Her reaction time all of a sudden seems unextraordinary by comparison.

McCree quirks his lips into an oddly charming smile. "Well, that solves the missing gun problem, then? Sorry about that, by the way. Shootin' shit's the best way I know of when dealin' with that kind of situation… Yer hand got cut up, eh?"

"It's okay." She puts the gun into the duffel bag, thankful that she won't have to shoot any more people today. Something about the act feels… dirty, as if it leaves behind permanent stains on her skin, on her hands. Self-defense or no, Hana would be perfectly content to never kill anyone ever again.

_As if you have a choice,_ taunts DVA.

McCree is already setting off down the empty street. Before she can stop herself, Hana blurts out, "Does it ever bother you?"

"What does?" The cowman turns as if it's not obvious what Hana's referring to. Maybe it really isn't, to someone who's used to it. After all, kind Genji had killed an entire alley of people without batting an eye.

"Killing someone," says Hana. To acquiesce that shooting someone is the only way to win the game, to come out on top- it feels inherently _wrong_ to her.

Apparently not so to the cowman, because he shrugs in a way that suggests absolute nonchalance. "Well, see now," he drawls. "Not really. If it has to be one or the other, I'd rather it be me doing the killin'… and them doing the dyin'."

They approach the end of the street together, and suddenly the block is alive and bursting with _people._ Old women wave jewelry and little cellphone keychains from stands (Hana rubs her thumb surreptitiously against her rabbit charm) across from high-tech PC cafes which are flooded with laughing teenage boys, still dressed in their school uniforms. Cabs honk irritably at slow pedestrians, hover-wheels thrumming loudly. Omnic guards patrol up and down the street brandishing taser sticks, menacing in appearance despite the calm smile painted onto each of their faceplates.

The scratch on her arm doesn't burn anymore. The feeling of nausea has been replaced by a deep-seated tiredness within her, melting through her energetic façade. Making the ground look like _such_ an inviting place to lie down and sleep on.

Cowman whistles as he plants his hands on his hips. "We should be safer here," he decides, squinting up at the towering skyscrapers, alight with neon pink lines. "Your home sure is gorgeous. You live here, little missy?" He turns towards Hana.

_I live here, but this is not my home,_ thinks Hana dully. She doesn't want to tell him that, but lying seems rather ungrateful, if he really is trying to get her out of Talon territory. Thankfully, she's saved from answering because her legs finally give out, sending her teetering.

He steadies her with one hand. He sounds startled, concerned, whereas Genji would've been low and calming. "Hey, hey- wha's the matter?"

"Dart," she manages, gesturing towards her scratched arm. "I think it was poisoned." She's _sure_ that it was poisoned, because this feeling of not being able to gather her strength is wholly unfamiliar to her. A simple scratch should not able to do that. Fear rings true in her bones, though God knows she'd never admit it. "There was a sniper somewhere on the roofs in Jungsoo Station."

"A sniper? Darts?" McCreee's voice rises, thick with anger. "Goddammit, they've got ahold of her gun."

_Who's gun? Another sniper's?_ The only sniper she can think of is Ana Amari, but that doesn't make sense, does it? _Amari-nim is in Korea? Why is she shooting at me?_

Hana tries push him away, but this time McCree stops her. "Don't move. That's a damn powerful tranq you been hit with. Won't kill you, and it won't knock you out completely cos you been only grazed, from the looks of it, but it-"

"I'm fine," she snaps. Her own burning resolve to stand unaided is the only thing that pushes her to stand up straight, wobbling slightly. She ignores the masked concern in McCree's gaze. _A tranquilizer dart? So again, they weren't trying to kill me?_ So many questions, and almost no answers. That fuzzy feeling grows stronger, and she says in mumbled English, "Why are they doing this to me?"

McCree starts to say something, but is interrupted by the wail of sirens. Both of them whip their heads around to see a patrol of police cars stuck in a traffic jam at a nearby junction.

Wordlessly, they take off in the opposite direction.

Jesse McCree is a damn fool.

_I shoulda never come here,_ he grouses as he speed-walks down the busy sidewalk. He's gotten into the habit of talking to himself, which he thinks is rather standard for someone who is alone as he is. One simply does not make friends when they have a $40,000,000 bounty on their head.

"But I'm not alone," he says aloud. He looks down at Little Missy Hana Song, the next unfortunate soul at the forefront of one of Talon's little schemes, who staggers alongside him like the undead.

She looks awful- skin white as paper, dark bags large enough to cradle babes underneath her eyes. The poor thing doesn't even notice him speaking- If McCree is guessing correctly, the dart that grazed her was an amalgamation of Ms. Amari's sleep darts and standard toxic ammunition. Enough to conk someone out for twenty-four hours, and enough to put someone to sleep even when they just scratch their victim.

_So Talon's been doin' some experimentation of their own, eh?_ It's an unpleasant thought, especially given the fact that they intended for this little girl to be their next experimentee.

McCree pauses to scratch at his nose while passersby blink suspiciously at him. Some even stop to full-on gape at his attire. He's not at all bothered by their stares, really. At least the South Koreans are reacting more kindly to his fashion choices than the Mosul Iraqis.

The seedy motel he's staying at looks like a shack in comparison to the two skyscrapers it's jammed between. Still, it does its job- well-paid owners tend not to tip the police off as long as they continue to be well-paid.

He stops at the door and turns to Hana. She rubs at her eyes wearily, bangs falling in front of her face. "This is where 'm staying," he informs her. "Mebbe it's sketchy as hell but it's all I can offer. You up for it?"

Hana lets out a monotone grunt and wavers on her feet. McCree hastily ushers her in.

After a walk down a long, creaking hallway and a fumbling of keys, the girl deposits herself onto the couch in McCree's suite. She groans and rubs at her head, but otherwise says nothing else. He drops onto one of the two stiff wooden chairs, echoing her groan, and he can't help but think _'m getting old._

Which is strange, as Jesse McCree is only thirty years old, give or take a couple years- he's lost track of his age during this long, endless run from everyone.

That's not the only thing he's lost track of, though. There are plenty more- the places he's been, the places he's going. That ever-growing bounty weighing cold on his shoulders. Talon. Family. Friends.

Perhaps it was foolish to for him to decline Overwatch's job offer. In all honesty, Ms. Amari hadn't tried very hard to convince him to join up. They'd both known that the entire 'Overwatch will let you regain your peace' trope was bullshit, bullshit that only people like Tracer and Winston bought into- those who are eternally optimistic, always vying for a chance to redeem something that should just stay dead.

Which is why McCree was so surprised to get a call from _Genji_ trying to convince him to rejoin _,_ of all people. The last he'd heard of his cyborg friend, the man had been going back to his home in Hanamura, to kill that treacherous brother of his.

Not even McCree knows the full story behind _that,_ though he's probably one of Genji's closest friends. From what little he understands well about Genji, he knows that the poor fellow's family fucked him over, and that they were the reason he had his robotic body.

What he understands even better is that all Genji had ever wanted from that point on was revenge.

* * *

" _The world is changing, McCree. Join us," he says, in a voice that is not Genji's at all. Calm, low. Filled with a serenity that McCree immediately envies. "This will be one of the new Overwatch's first missions. What better way is there for you to redeem yourself?"_

Redeem myself? _He's talking about Blackwatch. Of course he needs to bring up Blackwatch. "I don't need no redeemin'," he growls into the phone, fingers tapping restlessly over Peacekeeper. He tilts back in his seat, boots resting on a dusty tabletop. The stink of fresh blood hangs heavy in the air, most of it coming from the four Deadlock corpses slumped on the floor all around him, though some comes from the oozing cut on his leg._

_Genji's reply is blunt. "Yes, you do."_

_The sunlight rises slowly through the blinds, painting stripes of light in the dark room. Illuminating the dust angels crowding the air. "Genji, I love ya to bits, but yer mistaking me for a good man," he drawls.. "Whatever the hell I did in the past, stays in the past. I don't fucking care what it was."_

" _But you_ are _a good man," says Genji simply. McCree sighs._

" _I ain't good, I ain't bad, but I sure as hell ain't ugly," he quips. "I don't got no obligations to Overwatch, or Blackwatch fer that matter. I ain't no nobleman."_

" _You do not need to be one in order to do good."_

" _I killed four men this morning," McCree provides idly._

" _I am sure," says Genji stiffly, "It is because you had to. Not because you wanted to."_

_Because he had to?_

_Yes, he had to- if he hadn't, his blood would boil over in anger, filling him with an indescribable heat. If he hadn't, he'd be just another man running from just another bounty. If he hadn't, then he might as well not exist._

_But by most people's definition, that meant he had killed them because he wanted to._ Yes, I wanted to kill them.

" _I suppose," lies McCree gruffly. "What's the mission?"_

_Genji hums, satisfied. "There's a famous gamer that goes by the alias 'DVA'. Nobody knows who she is. I doubt you've heard of her."_

_McCree grunts in confirmation. "You're recruiting this, er, gamer? Why?"_

" _If you_ had _heard of her, you'd know why. Winston has calculated that in theory, her reaction time is high enough for her to literally intercept individual bullets with lasers as they shoot at her."_

_He's not going to lie to himself; that sounds damn impressive. Though… "Tha's an oddly specific theory."_

" _He's planning to install it as a feature in her MEKA- which is something else entirely. Anyways, Winston has traced her address to South Korea. I'm going there to talk to her, and I would take Tracer with me but-"_

_McCree interrupts. "_ Tracer _is there?" And so is Winston, who initiated the recall, and Ms. Amari, who he talked to just yesterday. He almost asks if_ Jack and Gabe has rejoined as well? _before he remembers that… well. They're dead._

_He's lost track of a lot of things._

" _Tracer is here, and so is Winston-san, Dr. Ziegler, Lucio, who is a new recruit, and Reinhardt-san," says Genji cheerfully. "It really is beginning to feel just like old times, Jesse. You will be sorely missed if you choose not to come."_

_Old times. The old times that Genji remember are very different from the old times that McCree remember. A scowl flits across his features. "No Gabe, no Jack - you sure it feels even close to the same?"_

" _They may not be here in person, but they are here in spirit," says Genji gravely. "Besides, that is a moot point. McCree, you cannot stay on the run like this forever."_

_McCree bites back. "Who says?"_

_The cyborg's processed voice hums in the quiet. "I do. I will send you the coordinates we are to meet at over holoboard, along with the details of the mission and what it entails.I will also give you a direct connection to the GPS tracker that Hana Song-san- that's DVA's real name- will be carrying in her transceiver. In case," and here he hesitates, "you do not… make it in time."_

_The call abruptly cuts off without even a farewell. Leaving McCree sitting at the table again, all on his lonesome…_

* * *

…And eventually leading him to where he sits now, in some cheap room in South Korea with a poisoned girl (who plays a game of some sort? Genji hadn't clarified on that, and McCree hadn't bothered to look it up) a spectacular one or two weeks late.

Yes, the girl. Hana Song. She's small, unassuming, and bleeding from her arm. Obviously not combat or stealth ops trained- or trained in anything at all, really.

And no Genji, which is a real bummer because McCree is _not_ good with children.

Hana's shivering, obviously cold, so McCree stands up and gets her a blanket. She mumbles a _kamsahamnida, isanghan saram_ (which McCree hopes is something polite) and cocoons herself in its polyester fabric. Her sullen face peeks out of the bright red shell it forms.

McCree suppresses a laugh. "So… you feelin' okay, little missy? Need a teddy bear and some ice cream to go along with that?"

" _Kkujuhyo,"_ Hana sniffs in Korean, which McCree doesn't understand but presumes is an insult. She's acting quite feisty for someone who'd just been tranq'd. "When do you think this will wear off?"

"Give it a day and I reckon it'll be gone," McCree looks over the girl, so small in her blanket, hollow eyes marring a pretty face.

While he was tracking her down, he'd come across the steaming corpses of two Talon agents.

_The little missy has killed trained combat operatives. Without hesitation._

McCree adjusts his hat and leans back in his seat. "Care to fill me in on what happened while I wasn' here?"

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cultural Notes
> 
> EVEN IF YOU DON'T NORMALLY READ THE CULTURAL NOTES I HIGHLY RECOMMEND THAT YOU READ THEM JUST THIS ONCE SO YOU CAN UNDERSTAND SOME THINGS IN FUTURE CHAPTERS.
> 
> Formal and informal speech- In Korean, there are little suffixes/alternate versions of words that are more formal and therefore polite. For example, 'ahnyounghaseo' (Hello) as opposed to 'ahnyoung' has the suffix -haseo that makes it more polite.
> 
> The situations where you use formal speech vary. In general, one uses formal speech when talking to a a). stranger/someone you just met,
> 
> b). someone who is of a higher social standing in your company/country (generals, presidents, leaders in general),
> 
> c). to those who are older than you (respect for elders is a very strong theme in Korean mannerisms).
> 
> I'm explaining this now because Hana does not take to McCree instantly the same way she took to Genji. She'll be saying a lot of snide things behind his back in Korean (at least for now) that are ironic because they denote respect (as he is her senior) and yet are insults. You'll see the first example of such in the translation notes below :)
> 
> Also, because I'll have more of Hana insulting McCree in Korean in future chapters, any advice from actual Koreans that wish to improve upon my translations are welcome. I've been teaching myself the language (oh, the things I do to write a stupid fanfiction...?) but I may still mess up sometimes.
> 
> IN GENERAL:
> 
> Any Korean sentence ending with –(y)o or -imnida on the last word is at least semiformal. Without it, and the sentence is casual, like something you say to your friend.
> 
> Translation Notes
> 
> kamsahamnida, isanghan saram- Thank you, weird person (weirdo). Is said ironically because 'kamsahamnida' is the formal version of 'thank you', while 'isanghan saram' is essentially an insult.
> 
> Kkuhjuyo- Literally translates to 'Fuck off.' The suffix -yo makes it the 'polite' form of 'fuck off', though xP
> 
> A/N:
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you for the comments and follows. They really are my main motivation- knowing that someone out there is enjoying this story :)
> 
> You might see a lot of similarities between McCree's mannerisms in his introduction and Ana Amari's mannerisms. That was for a reason. Ana really helped McCree out while he was a part of Blackwatch, and influenced him as a mentor figure. Voice line evidence from in-gam:
> 
> Pharah: McCree, where did you learn to shoot like that? Was it Jack, Gabriel?   
> McCree: Always was a good shot, but I got a few pointers from the best. That'd be your mother. 
> 
> McCree: It's an honor fighting by your side, ma'am.   
> Ana: Heh, you always were a charmer.
> 
> A lot of explanations will be happening next chapter, on both Hana's and McCree's parts (what McCree is doing in Korea, what happened to Genji, etc.)
> 
> See you next chapter!
> 
> -Tex


	16. Mòn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite cowboy and our favorite gamer have a talk.

The girl across from him blinks sleepily. "Talk about… what happened? Um…" She mumbles something in Korean, shifting inside of her blanket as she scratches her head. McCree patiently gives her the time to sort out her thoughts. _It's been a long week for everyone. 'Specially her._

Finally, she mutters with something resembling clarity, "Genji came to interview me two or so weeks ago. Because of, uh, certain… circumstances, he decided to take me with him right away to a motel in… whats-its-name." She snaps her fingers, a crisp sound that cuts through McCree's muddled thoughts. "Juseong Town. Then we waited-"

Against his better judgement, the cowboy pushes it. "Certain circumstances?"

Hana's hands draw the blanket closer around her. " _Neh_. Certain circumstances," she repeats stoically. McCree notes with more creepy fascination than interest that Hana's face is perfectly blank, as if all traces of emotion have been wiped away by a giant Wind-Ex wiper.

Trying to erase that image from his mind, McCree assumes a more comfortable position by kicking his boots onto the table and tucking his arms- one real, the other prosthetic- behind his head. The metal one presses uncomfortably into his hair.

"Care to elaborate?" he asks, words slow and casual.

"No," she replies shortly. Irritation seeps into her voice. "What does that- what does that have to do with _anything?_ "

 _Jesus is she hostile._ Though, really, what did he expect? Anyone in the girl's situation would be tensed up, mentally. Maybe it was just Jesse being the odd one, all smiles and quips under a hail of gunfire.

" _You always were a charmer," says Ms. Amari with a voice like steel. Instead of scolding him for it, like he expects her to, she pats the hat on his head and grins. "That's a good thing. There are more situations you have to talk your way out of than shoot your way out of."_

"Honestly, nothin' much. I just figger we should get to know each other if I'm gonna stick around," he explains with a lazy grin of his own.

Of course, not really. McCree was rarely diplomatic in his relationships with anyone business-related- and his 'friendship' with Hana was about as business-related as you could get.

On the other hand, most of the business-related relationships he'd had were with people in tailored suits and lots of cash, not scruffy little girls that owned next to nothing. Her situation intrigued him on a personal level. After all the kids he'd seen recruited into Overwatch were like him and Genji- criminals that had to pick between jail and Blackwatch.

They'd both picked Blackwatch, Genji to save his body and McCree to save his life, and sometimes McCree wondered if he'd have been better off safe in a cell.

 _Not that Overwatch is the same as Blackwatch, if you believe the media. Oh, no- Jack an' Rein an' Lena an' the rest are right saints, they are_. _They're too noble for the likes of Genji, an' me, an' Gabe, and they're definitely above employing children,_ he thinks with biting sarcasm.

_And speaking of Genji, what's the big deal with him? DIsappearin' on us both._

Unfortunately, Hana is less than willing to cooperate with his little background investigation. " _Michin-nom._ All you need to know is that Talon's trying to kill me, or capture me, or whatever the fuck, and you have to kill them all," she snaps. "Now _shall I continue?_ "

She frowns at him.

 _Nice one, McCree. Now she hates you._ McCree gives her the go-ahead with a defeated nod and she continues, now slightly more ruffled.

"Then we waited out there until the extraction date came. Except, Talon attacked us-"

McCree interrupts again, this time incredulous. "They made you _wait?_ "

" _They were busy. I'm sure they had their reasons,_ " roars Hana, red-in-the-face. Her voice peaks up, and it would've been funny how high-pitched it got if it weren't so scary. _"If you interrupt me again I will shoot you."_

 _Again…jesus._ "Aw, geez. Sorry, princess," he says, hasty to appease her. He just- couldn't help it. Overwatch was many things, but _dumb_ was not one of them. _They should've left immediately. What the fuck, Overwatch?_

"Don't call me that." Hana pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closed, the perfect picture of an exasperated old lady. _Except that she's what- fifteen?_

A deep, meditative breath. Then-

"A- Anyways, we left, got chased by Talon, got to Busan. Then Talon cornered us in an alley. And shot Genji." She looks up at McCree to gauge his reaction.

His reaction being: _surely I heard wrong_.

"Tha's not possible."

She squints at him. "Pardon?"

"Tha's not possible." It's not a careful inquiry for clarification, it's an outright refusal of her statement. McCree draws another cigarillo from the carton, fumbling with a lighter as he goes.

He can almost see Genji in his mind's eye, walking down King's Row with bloody katana brandished. A mission gone bad when the cyborg had been cornered by anti-Omnic extremists who mistakenly believed him to be completely Omnic, only to end on a note of complete success when all of them were quietly wiped out.

Genji Shimada. The monster of Blackwatch that even other battle-hardened operatives avoided, back in the day. "Maybe if a hundred of those Talon fuckers jumped him, he might've gotten some dents in that fancy armor of his. But no way he got hurt from some shmucks-"

"It was my fault," says Hana. For the first time, her voice wavers, ever so slightly. "He would've been fine if… if I hadn't gotten involved."

Oh.

A hostage situation, then. He can see that happening. That same monster of Blackwatch always had a soft spot for kids. That, coupled with his tendency to throw himself at danger whenever someone was about to get hurt, made it very damn likely that the cyborg was off bleeding to the death in an alley somewhere.

Something throbs in McCree's chest, and he knows it to be _worry._ It chokes him up in a way that feels unfamiliar to him- no big surprise, it's been a while since he's had to think about saving someone's skin that wasn't his own.

So he grimaces and pushes away the picture of Genji choking on his own blood with the ease of one who's done it before. "Okay, go on."

Hana sighs in a deep whoosh of air. "He thought… that he would drag me down… so he left me. I found a safe spot, and bunked with some kind people there. Got Genji's transceiver, which Tracer-nim used to direct me to this station. Went to check it out tonight and that's where I fucked up- Talon found me, so I had to kill some of them, and also I lost my transceiver. And got shot."

She waves vaguely at McCree, and grinds out, "So. Thank you… for finding me and helping me out. It was, um, appreciated."

Hana is visibly more tired just narrating that story.

Jesse's impression of this entire ordeal is _Overwatch fucked up. They fucked up good._ They were obviously limited in resources and agents, didn't have the proper funding or materials to even defend the Russian Omnic front properly, and yet _still- still_ had the audacity to try recruiting some kid in Asia to 'the cause' (whatever the fuck that might be now). To say that this entire venture is a grand overestimation of their abilities is an understatement. This could literally be the death of three agents- one current, one former, and one to-be.

And it's not the girl's fault in the slightest. _Terrible luck. Damn terrible luck._

McCree says, a little gentler, "No problem, little missy. You did a mighty fine job for someone in your position." As sincere as possible, because all things considered? She really did handle the situation remarkably well. _Problems come up on every turn of the plan, and yet she's still kickin'. Somehow._

"No. I fucked up a lot." Hana leans back against the couch, a little bundle of teenage angst- well-justified angst, no matter which way you looked at it.

"Do you think I'm ever going to get to Seoul, McCree-nim?"

He doesn't have the heart to lie to her. Not that she'd take his bullshit if he tried. "Nah, not really."

He's crossed paths with Talon before. Their encounters were few and far in between, but their absolute preparedness for any situation had always chilled him. One of their sects get wiped out? No problem, they're replaced without a bat of an eye. Someone gets poisoned? No problem, they have the antidote. Or, more often than that, someone has the antidote? They have the poison that can't be cured.

He believes, rightly so or not, that Talon has the necessary resources to do whatever they want, from inciting rebellions in Mexico to kickstarting the next Omnic Crisis.

Long ago, the only other organization that fit that description in the world had been Overwatch. Unlimited resources, operations on a global scale, a pool of talent like no other- until, that is, it got pulled apart by the Petras Act. Leaving Talon completely unchecked.

In just a single week of pursuing Hana, Talon had risked three open firefights in crowded places, lost numerous agents, and yet _still_ kept sending them after the poor thing. Talon's cover-up work was usually impeccable, but now? Now they only did the bare basics- corpse retrieval, a little bribery, and nothing else. They cared not for the news outlets reporting on their misdeeds, they cared not that they had just revealed themselves to the South Korean government. It's become clear that all that matters to them is seizing Hana. Everything just boils down to _why?_

The girl in question is unnervingly comfortable with the idea that she might not make it. "That's what I thought." Her eyes open, dark as new leather. Staring, unseeing, at the flickering light hanging precariously from the ceiling.

She takes on a conversational tone. "Genji was too nice to me. He hid the truth a lot. If he thought it would frighten me, or hurt me, he'd just never mention it."

That sounded about right. Even before he'd become strangely zen, Genji was always a little too kind to certain people.

"That's called being good with children," replies McCree breezily, and Hana apparently finds that humorous because she laughs. It's an empty, tragic sound.

"Are you good with children, McCree-nim?" she snarks.

The cigarillo lights, and a little puff of smoke blooms from its cherry-red tip. "Not in the slightest, ma'am."

"Good. Then you'll tell me everything." Her voice hardens, and she leans forward, hands clasped. "If you're not a member of Overwatch, why are you _here?"_

That's a tricky question. McCree forces his twiddling thumbs to rest.

Guilt has a lot to do with it- he remembers with perfect clarity waking up to Tracer's loud, angry voice over the transceiver, telling him that Genji was missing (she refused to say _possibly dead_ ). That there was a fifteen-year-old girl in the middle of a Talon stake-out, completely alone.

The Overwatch agent hadn't been especially kind about it. _If you'd just bloody gone in the first place, none of this would've happened, you absolute bollock!_

 _Perhaps I'm just a romantic fool._ "What makes you think I didn't live here in the first place?" he jokes. By way of reply, Hana sticks out an open-faced palm at McCree's outfit.

"That. That is what. Do you understand how absolutely _ridiculous_ you look?"

"I assure you, this is all quite normal for where I come from," he says with an easy grin. Which isn't really the truth, because his get-up is a little too cowboy-esque even for the South.

Hana arches an eyebrow. "This is South Korea, not America, foolish cowman," she says sharply. "Now, answer me."

McCree pulls his legs off of the table, planting them firmly on the ground. He straightens his back ( _better admit it like a man or not at all)_ before he says, "I was s'pposed to pick you up with Genji, but I didn't show up. So here I am, a little late. I-"

This time it's Hana that interrupts him, not the other way around. "You- _you_ were the person Tracer mentioned?"

McCree blinks, exhales musky cigarillo smoke. "She mentioned me?"

Suddenly Hana is on her feet, blanket falling from her grasp as she walks directly up to McCree. She's a barely-five-foot girl in a pink blouse but the aura around her is intimidating to the extreme, so much so that McCree's hand jumps to his revolver.

She stops just a foot away from him, her face a mask of fury as she yells, "If you'd shown up, Genji wouldn't have died!"

It feels as if an icy hand has closed around his heart- an uncomfortable and all-too familiar feeling. He growls, "Genji isn't _dead._ " It was true that he bailed out, but there was no damage that couldn't be reversed, at least not yet-

"No, but he- I mean-" Hana's face crumples, ever so slightly. "He may as well be." The slowly swinging light behind the girl casts her face in darkness. The backlighting ages her by a hundred years, turning her into an ancient, bone-weary thing. "You… if you'd just… _showed up,_ you _wanjun gubjengi."_

And there it is. That stabbing feeling of guilt that's been pestering him ever since Overwatch magically resurrected- that he'd failed Overwatch, that he'd failed Genji, that he'd failed Gabe, that he'd failed a child halfway across the world. It hurts, it hurts more than he'd like to admit.

_It's more familiar than I'd like to admit._

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. _Sincerely._ "Real damn sorry. But I'm here now, and yellin' at me ain't gon' change nothing."

Hana glowers at him. For a moment, he wonders if she's going to hit him.

Finally, the girl trudges back to the couch. Wraps the blanket around her shoulders like a cape, as if she's a sad, small Superman. "Too late."

"Too late," agrees McCree. The word tastes bitter in his mouth. And there's a buzzing silence for a long, long time.

* * *

It's still dark out, but McCree can make out a glint of white in the shadows where Hana should be. Its glassy quality marks it as light reflecting off of her still-open eyes.

He should tell her to get some sleep, that she's probably exhausted. That whatever dreams may come haunt her tonight is worth the energy it will bring her in the morning.

But then he'd be a filthy hypocrite. So he slides his hat forward over his eyes as he tilts his head back, and darkness overtakes him as easy if someone turned out the lights.

* * *

_Mother is crying again. Usually, Hana would just ignore her, but today It bothers her in a way she can't explain._

_She approaches the kitchen hesitantly. The bruise she got from that strange man that Mother had introduced as a friend throbs on her side._

"Unma _," she says, in quiet Korean. "Don't worry. Daddy will come back."_

_Mother is inconsolable. She clutches at the bottle with enough force to make her knuckles go white. Strands of black hair fall loose from her bun into deranged curls around her face._

" _No," Mother says, words thick and muddled. She slams her hand against the kitchen table in a desperate attempt to hold herself upright. She sounds angry. Frustrated with Hana. "No, you- y-you don't understand."_

What don't I understand? _Hana wants to scream. "It's only been two years since he left. You can't give up already. What-_ Why _don't I understand?"_

_Mother's demeanor changes like someone flipped a switch. "How old are you again?" she snaps, and Hana flinches. Why did everyone care about her age so much?_

" _I'm eleven."_

" _That's why you don't understand. You're a child," Mother growls, and then hiccups loudly. "We don't have anyone. Your nasty aunt and uncle- they've gone and ignored us, do you know that? Left me here to rot with a child I can't even support."_

 _She takes another swig straight from the bottle, then drops it onto the table, where it rolls in a slow circle. "You. You make everything impossible. I can't move, I can't run, I can't- I can't- we don't have anyone!_ I don't have anyone."

_I'm in your same situation, Hana wants to remind. But Mother is to absorbed in her self-pitying hellhole to think about that._

_She jabs an accusing finger at Hana with a frustrated growl. "Because of you, I'm going to rot in this hellhole-"_

_Ding-dong. Hana freezes. Mother lifts her head, stares at the door._

_Then she smiles._

" _Oh, he's here. Go get the door." She turns, digging through her purse, before locating a tube of deep red lipstick. Hana watches blankly as Mother begins clumsily applying it to her mouth._

_Mother turns, and glares. "Didn't you hear me? Go on, get the door!"_

'Oh, he's here.'

 _Hana stumbles out of the kitchen, races to the door. Hope fills her lungs till they swell like balloons, threatening to lift her off the ground._ Is Daddy back? Daddy-

_She fumbles with the latch, and jumps back as the door swings open._

_A man stands in the doorway, tall and broad-chested and handsome, just like her Dad- and- and cruel-faced, and glaring, and with a tattoo emblazoned on his arm, just_ not _like her Dad._

" _Mr. Seon," Hana blurts. Mr. Seon stares down at her._

_His deep voice is curiously devoid of emotion. "What, you're going to pull the trigger?"_

_The trigger?_

_Hana looks down. Clutched in between her hands is a gun- a gun that a strange American had given to her before, from the corpse of a Talon agent._

_This- this wasn't how it was supposed to go. This wasn't how it ever went. She looks at the gun, to Mr. Seon, and back. The trigger feels smooth underneath the pad of her index finger._

" _You have the power to, now," says Mother from behind her, and Hana turns to be confronted with Amin Lee. The Omnic takes a step forward, voice tranquil as still water. "You have the power to end all this. If you so choose."_

If I so choose.

_She turns back to Mr. Seon. He's outfitted in full-body Talon gear, now, and has a gun of his own. The voice modulator box built into his uniform hums as he growls, in Tara's voice, rough and full of conviction, "You're not going to do it. You can't. You're just going to run away again-"_

_Hana pulls the trigger. Amin screams, and Mr. Seon's head jerks back from the impact of the bullet going through the visor. The visor that shatters, revealing the glowing green line of Genji's mask underneath…_

* * *

Hana's eyes snap open to a dimly lighted motel room.

 _When did I doze off?_ She'd told herself she wouldn't, that she didn't trust the strange American enough. Hana takes stock of the situation- red blanket, check. Ratty mustard yellow couch, check. Strange American-

He's nowhere to be found. Hana frowns, and drapes the blanket over her shoulders as she stands, unsteady on her feet.

Whatever dream she'd had last night hadn't been pleasant, even though she can't really remember anything- aside from the scent of stale soju. She swallows back the bitter feeling on her tongue as she shuffles out of the room.

The scent of coffee hangs in the air, almost as thick and musty as the scent of McCree's cigar smoke. She tracks the smell down the hall, to the lobby.

Hana spots the cowboy immediately. It's almost impossible _not_ to, as his strange hat and clinking boots make him stick out like a sore thumb, especially when he's surrounded by decidedly more fashion-conscious people milling about the lounge.

In the light, she also notices another thing: Jesse McCree is _tall._ He's a full head taller than most people in the room, even without the hat.

A mug rests steaming in one of his gloved hands- the source of that smell. He raises it and winks at a girl in a miniskirt with a smooth smile, sending her scurrying after her friends, completely scandalized. Unbothered by the reception, he repeats the action in the direction of a gawking young boy who undoubtedly thinks McCree is some sort of action hero.

It's only when he repeats the action a third time, towards Hana, that she realizes that she's been standing there open-mouthed for quite some time. She presses her lips together into a grimace- _literally, is this man fucking crazy?-_ before she storms over to him.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses. The man raises an eyebrow.

"Havin' some morning coffee. Wakes you right up. Want some?" he offers in that ridiculous Southern accent.

Hana waves away the mug with a scowl. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

McCree shrugs and takes another sip. "Would be awful rude of me to cut your beauty sleep short. Besides, it's still pretty early. We have plenty of time before we hafta get on the move again. Gimme thirty minutes, an' we'll go."

It's still pretty early? Hana squints out the window, at the still-dark sky. "What time is it?"

Somehow, McCree pulls off the quip with a straight face.

"High noon."

Hana craves the sweet embrace of death.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes:
> 
> Neh- "Yes," semiformal.
> 
> Wanjun gubjengi- Total coward ('wanjun' is total, 'gubjengi' is coward.) Handy for if you ever want to call someone a coward in Korean behind their back (which I toooootally haven't done -)
> 
> A/N:
> 
> We hit a couple of cool numbers last week!
> 
> -50,000 words!
> 
> -15 chapters!
> 
> -Over 120 followers across fanfiction.net and AO3!
> 
> And if my chapter statistics are anything to go off of, at least 700 guests (people who are not logged into/do not have a account) are also reading along :)
> 
> So it is with utmost sincerity that I say thank you. I never expected this to get so much traction at all. Your comments and follows make my day every time- without you guys, this fic wouldn't exist. :) Have a nice day!


	17. Chapter 17

**xXXTARAXXx:** yeah she's missing idk if she ran away or somethin

reply **HELIGOLANDER:** anyone break into ur house recently?

reply **Goldthorne123** : why would she run away?

reply **xXXTARAXXx:** she does that alot

reply **Kokital:** one word: KIDNAPPING

reply **Bobave**  i don't understand, why would she run away

reply **xXXTARAXXx** : I DONT KNOW

reply **GladiaraAlata:** for how long has she been missing

reply **VanillaFive:** she said a day

reply **xXXTARAXXx: a** day, shes been gone since last night

reply **lTwinDragonsl:** she's like your friend or something?

reply **xXXTARAXXx:** kinda

reply **Queensman:** where do you usually find her

reply **trashcandroid:** does she have any family?

Tara scowls at her holoboard. _A family?_ She has no idea if Hana Song has a family. Or even any friends, for that matter.

Amin is beside herself with worry. The Omnic paces in the living room, carbon fiber feet thudding hard against the hardwood floor. "What do you think happened to her? What do you think we did wrong?" Her voice hums softly, mechanically. "Oh, I hope she's alright."

Unlike Amin, Tara is not worried. Tara is fucking _angry._ There's rush of heat to her head, her fingers curling against the holoboard. _I warned you. I warned you this would happen._

"We didn't do anything wrong," she growls, slamming the holoboard shut. New notification messages _ding, ding, ding_ through the air; undoubtedly bringing her strange and completely unfounded theories about kidnappings and robberies.

In truth, Tara already knows what happened to Hana Song. The girl had run away again- possibly afraid of whatever is chasing her, whether it's an actual person or just consequences of past actions.

Like she suspects, the Internet offers a vague sense of panic in lieu of helpful advice. Probing questions that make Amin doubt what little she had known about the girl, and make her realize just how much she didn't understand. _Oh, well. It was worth a try._

Amin wrings her hands, metal digits on a hard plastic balljoint that rotate back and forth. The motion is so painfully _human_ to Tara; it hurts to watch the calm Omnic like this. Her own mother is suffering because of some idiot girl _._ Anger flares unbidden within her once again, and she grinds her knuckles against the hardened skin of her palm, imagining what she will do to Hana if or when the girl comes back.

The girl's smug, smug face. _That little fucker-_

But if she harms the girl, Amin would grow even more upset. She heaves a breath and pretends to ankle-kick an imaginary dummy, because God she could use some ankle-kicking right about now.

"I wonder why she left," says Amin regretfully. Her optics flash in Tara's direction. "She seemed to be in such trouble, too."

"She was the trouble itself," mutters Tara. _It's okay, don't think about it._ Hana was not the first stray Amin took in, only to have them run. Hopefully she'd be the last.

Tara tries to distract Amin. "When's Kyung going to get here with the _jajangmyun_? I ordered it like forever ago. I'm literally starving."

"It should be here soon," the Omnic says vaguely as she stares out the window. Somehow, there is something forlorn about the look, despite the lack of emotions on her blank faceplate.

Tara softens. "I ordered two, just in case, she, uh. Comes back," she offers. Amin makes a small noise of gratitude, but remains motionless.

Who the hell cares about Hana? Tara certainly doesn't. _I don't care, I don't care at all._ She doesn't like it when Amin takes someone in- in never ends well for their little family. She's so weary, so weary of seeing Amin like this.

_Of course she ran. They always run._ The only one who hasn't run away is Tara.

(Shouldn't that be enough for Amin?)

Is it selfish to think so? Yes. But Tara is tired. She thinks that there is such a thing as having too much compassion, of being too kind to others. All Amin has done by taking in so many lost ones is burden herself and Tara, and she's always left heartbroken at the very end.

Tara curses under her breath and leans back into the softness of the couch. _Why do you keep trying to take in more and more kids?_

She curses Hana, who is a coward. She'd thought the girl would be different from the others, and would fucking _stay_.

She curses herself. Tara is as much of a coward as Hana. She's frightened. Frightened of being replaced.

_(Am I not enough?)_

_Ding-dong._

The jajangmyun. Tara calls to Amin, "I'll go get it."

She makes her way over to the door, grabbing the credit card on the way from the kitchen counter. And when she opens the door, she's greeted by a casual "Howdy, miss." The delivery guy isn't Kyung like it usually is. He's dressed strangely, with a red shawl draped over his shoulders and a stupid-ass hat on his head.

Tara snaps at the cowboy, impatient, while she waves the credit card. "Do you take debit-"

_Wait._

' _Howdy, miss?'_

**Cowboy?**

* * *

"I need to go back," says Hana firmly.

They're standing on the edge of the sidewalk, which is bustling with morning traffic. Between the honking taxis and McCree's outfit, Hana can't decide which is more distracting.

"You can't," replies McCree with equal firmness. The cowboy attracts stares from all directions, mostly from children who don't yet realize the impoliteness of staring. McCree doesn't seem to mind though, and tips his hat at one little girl, sending her squealing to her gawking mother in delight.

"They took me in. I can't just _run._ " She can imagine how angry Tara will be- oh, yes, Hana is in for a beating. One that she deserves, this time. But the last thing she wants to do is prove the girl right by fleeing from the scene- being the coward Tara had so angrily called her.

"If I'm going to go, I'm going to do it properly. Gonna say goodbye."

McCree's red-draped shoulders droop slightly. "Oh, Hana."

There's blatant exasperation in the American's voice. The hat overshadows his face again, leaving his eyes glinting in the dark.

Why does he not understand the simple concept Hana is so eagerly presenting? One does not simply leave their host's house without warning. Even Hana knows that.

" _Please, thank you, hello, and goodbye. Goodbye is more important than hello," says Mother, gently ruffling Hana's hair. "To know when things end is all you need."_

The memory is shoved aside with vehement force. "McCree-nim, _please._ "

He falters. She can't help but admit he cuts an intimidating figure, what with his goofy but plainly confident attire. If he doesn't want to listen to her, he won't. There isn't anything she can do about it.

His drawl is slow, careful. "Song… you realize, yer puttin' them in real hot water by visiting them? If you want to keep them safe, best stay away, as far away as-"

McCree is treating her like an idiot. She _hates_ that.

"I know," she interrupts. "You and I both know that Talon knows where they live. Where I've been staying. You aren't telling me to stay away because you want to protect _them,_ it's to protect _me._ Which is totally unfair, because all they were is nice to me, and now they're going to get punished for that if you don't _help!_ "

Her voice raises to a shout as she finishes her breathless, rampaging speech. Random passersby glance at her in shock. Hana doesn't especially care.

"Life's not fair." McCree doesn't talk with any of his previous bravado. It's not a funny little quote, it's a dead-serious, low, quiet drawl that Hana doesn't remember ever hearing before. "If they're gonna die, don' die with 'em."

The image of Tara and Amin lying motionless on the ground shoots a little pain right through Hana's heart. "They don't _have_ to die. You're- if you're anywhere near good as Genji, then-"

"Then what? Talon will attack them eventually. They probably won't even show up while we're there- Talon can take their sweet, sweet time, 'cos once we're off to Seoul, ain't nothing stopping them." McCree posture shifts into something more guarded. Smoke wisps from his lips as he talks.

"Believe me. Yer better off leaving them be."

"You speak from experience?" Hana asks dryly, crossing her arms. He doesn't answer.

They make their way down the sidewalk, straying halfway between the path they'd have to take if they want to get to Amin's apartment and the path that would take them back to Juseong Station. A sudden desperation seizes Hana from the inside out, because she'd never considered that the last time she'd see Amin and Tara would be that cold night on the balcony, staring at the void of the sky.

_I always thought I'd come back._

She tries a different approach. "Won't Overwatch protect them? Like, a witness protection program or something." That's how it always worked, after all- people who did good deeds that put them in danger got protected. Simple.

Evidently _not_ so simple, because McCree starts to laugh, his chuckles rolling and hearty and filled with mockery. "Overwatch can't do _shit._ As far as I know, there are only six people running the whole operation right now. You think they have the power to-"

"Don't cut yourselves short," Hana hisses, though mentally she's reeling from this revelation. _Six people?_ Holy fuck. Only six people in the entire damn organization? What happened to the others?

_They're dead,_ DVA reminds her. Strike Commander Morrision, Blackwatch's Gabriel Reyes- both were buried long ago underneath a solemn gravestone of rubble.

"Don't cut _yerselves_ short? Gee, that makes it sound like I'm still with'em. I'm not," retorts McCree. He drops the cigarillo onto the concrete, grinding it with the heel of his boots into fine ash.

"It's not that far away." She digs through the duffel bag, before retrieving the little piece of paper on which she had recorded the apartment's address and room number, in case she forgot. She holds it up. "I'll just tell them that I'm leaving and-"

"No." McCree stops the grinding of his heel. His spurs clink with the action.

Yes, spurs. Hana reminds herself that this- this strangely intimidating, tall, gun-wielding sharpshooter is still obstinately refusing to at least halfway assimilate into Korean culture by putting on a goddamn _t-shirt and sneakers,_ and yet he has the _gall_ to order her to turn away from the only two friends she has left in this world. She exhales, sending her bubblegum puffing up with the action.

It pops with a sharp _snap._ "Fine, then. Don't go with me. I appreciate all of your help, McCree-nim."

She bows to him, smirking but silently furious, before she turns and begins to walk away.

The cowboy curses. "Now, see here-"

As she resolutely ignores his protests, Hana knows that what she's doing is unfair. McCree doesn't have a choice but to follow Hana; he'd been the one to seek her out in the first place. On the other hand, while McCree's assistance is duly appreciated by Hana, she doesn't think she particularly _needs_ him to be around.

Hence her bold move to go do as she pleases. He will follow. He has no choice.

She walks, and walks, and walks. People shift and part out of her way as Hana goes, and maybe that's part of the reason why she feels so confident. Yes, yes- everything can work out. She can talk to Amin and Tara, stay one last night, and leave them on a picture-perfect _farewell._ The mysterious stranger they sheltered for one day, gone with the night breeze. Just like in all the K-dramas.

Her daydreams are interrupted by the resounding unfamiliarity of the surrounding area. Hana had run in a completely random direction following the Talon attack at Juseong Station, and she's never been in this area of the city before.

But people make their ways around these places all the time. She fumbles with her bag. The address- she has the address-

How to read it, though? Hana pauses to glance at the line of numbers and Korean letters, and it's then that she realizes that she really should've gone out more often as a child. Because the 'address' is completely undecipherable to her.

Which is the is the street name, and which is the complex name? Or are addresses formulized around numbers, not letters? Hana squints at the paper, slowly, slowly feeling more lost.

The most she had ever had to do when it came to locating things was know where the grocery store was, which was a grand ten feet away from her apartment building. Putting her like this, she's completely out of her element.

Icy panic is about to drown her when she thinks, _oh! I can just ask McCree._

After all, the cowboy can't be a complete idiot, if he'd tracked her down all the way from somewhere in America to Busan, in South Korea. Hell, tracking people is part of his job.

He won't tell her, though. He doesn't want her to go. _Well, fuck. I don't have a choice._

She turns, slowly, the fire of her pride threatening to go out with every passing second. "Um, McCree-nim-"

A relatively quietness greets her words. People glance at her as they walk by, hooked up to earbuds and Samsung phones, clearly wondering what sort of name 'McCree' is. None of them happen to be wearing a cowboy hat.

Her heart sinks like a stone. _What?_

* * *

Like hell he's going to follow the _pequeña muchacha_ to her death.

McCree watches her pastel pink form disappear into the crowd with a snort. A sentimental fool; that's what she is. Then again, most fifteen-year-olds are.

He supposes he can't really judge her- at her age, he'd been even more sentimental than she is now. If McCree recalls correctly, that year had been the one in which he'd first donned his Stetson. If it were fifteen-year-old-McCree in her position, he'd go back to save his _amigos_ as well, even if he had to risk his own neck to do it.

But fifteen-year-old McCree was the same McCree that thought Deadlock would come back for him, after he'd been captured by Overwatch (or more accurately, Blackwatch.) Fifteen-year-old McCree was naïve.

He's not like that anymore.

No matter. If she doesn't come back, McCree is perfectly content to turn around and get on the next flight to America. He has unfinished business in Arizona, a half-dozen bounty hunters after him in Michigan, and a possibly-dead cyborg on his hands- Jesse is a busy man, and he doesn't have _time_ be going after Hana Song. Even if all of this reformed Overwatch wants him to.

Still, he stays there, leaning against a shop window (to the dirty looks of the clerk). Just in case.

Even though he knows she's not coming back.

He'd spoke logically enough, hadn't he? And Hana must know, somewhere deep inside her, that McCree is correct. To put it bluntly, her two 'friends' are dead in the water and Hana's just rarin' to go join them. It's stupid, so stupid, but-

Jesse understands. He _gets_ it. She wants to send herself off properly, and she wants to ensure that they're safe and still alive before she does it. _An utter delusion._ Because the moment Overwatch isn't active in Korea, Talon will take the two out.

In fact, McCree is pretty sure the only thing keeping Talon from sieging all of the places Hana has been is… well.

His fingers curl around his gun, cool to the touch even underneath his serape. _Me._

Ten Talon agents per sect. That's how it usually is. The most Jesse McCree had ever taken on at once was three sects, back in the Siberian Omnic front. The three sects that are shadowing Hana right now, they damn well know what he's capable of doing.

His Deadeye's been ready for days. He's got enough spare bullets in his pack to supply an army. If they take him on, he can deal with it.

But this little girl?

Not a snowball's chance in hell.

In the end, it's that thought that drives him to walk to that address she'd showed him. A few directions from a couple friendly (and openly staring) pedestrians, and he's on his way to a steel-gray apartment building that towers into the sky like a needle poking into the clouds. Hana's patrons live on the sixtieth floor.

She's probably chatting them up right now. Should he interrupt? McCree hesitates, and then goes plunging into the elevator.

_I could wait outside,_ he muses during the elevator's dizzying ascent. _But what if she decides to stay the night? Then it'll just be poor McCree, standin' outside all alone fer twelve hours._

McCree may be a wanted man, and maybe he's killed and plundered and lied his fair share, but- but in the end?

He has morals. He follows those morals.

While he doesn't have the same soft spot for kids that Genji does, he has an unerring sense of fairness and what's become of Hana Song's life isn't _fair._ Life stacked the odds against her, and if McCree can balance 'em out even a little bit, he's happy to try and help.

Okay, perhaps happy isn't the right word for it. _Obligated_ is much more accurate. Because this little excursion has been frustrating as hell, and sometimes McCree wonders why he even tries.

The cowboy stands there, thinking of guns and Talon and avoidance tactics while jazzy sax elevator music plays in the background.

After what feels like before, the elevator doors ding open. Room 237, the paper had said. He strolls on down the empty hall, watching the little numbers on the door plaques scale up, all the way to 237 at the far end of the path. Behind the door, he can hear someone's voice, dark and surly and unmistakably female-

" _-oorirer nado nende, wen kerunsaramer-"_

Ah, Korean. Typical. At least Hana will be able to translate for him.

McCree raps smartly on the door, brushing off his serape as he does. His pride stings; Hana had played her cards right and McCree had lost at their little power play.

_Bold move, leaving me there. Stupid, but bold, I gotta give 'er that-_

The door slides open, and he's face-to-face with a teenage Korean girl that's definitely not Hana- she's a full half head taller, and has short black hair that sticks up in curls. Bandaids sprinkle her face and arms. McCree can definitely tell that unlike Hana, she's an athlete of some sort.

"Howdy," he says smoothly, with a tip of his hat.

" _Debituh carduh kajuhkayo-"_ She pauses, then stops to full-on stare at him.

Apparently Hana had not warned them about his appearance. He just smiles back, which tends to help with awkward first encounters. "I'm lookin' for a… a girl? She's wearing pink."

He doesn't refer to her by name, because he's not entirely certain how much these people know about Hana. The teenage girl still gapes.

Finally, she mutters in broken English, "Ah- wait moment, please-" before she swivels her head to yell over her shoulder, "UMMA! YUGIWABA!"

An Omnic appears from behind Tara, silver in color. Blue lights glow on its faceplate.

It moves with a kind of feminine grace, and its voice- yes, definitely feminine. " _Ahnyunghaseo?"_

To which he can only helplessly shrug, unable to answer. "Er- no idea what that means, I don't speak Korean-"

"No matter," continues the Omnic smoothly, this time in English. "I have the English library downloaded. What were you saying?"

Her professional manner puts McCree somewhat at ease. He'd been imagining the girl staying with a couple of hookers or maybe a gang, because normally those were the kinds of people to take in runaway teenagers without question.

Gangs didn't tend to be the best places for kids to grow up in. He of all people would know.

"I'm lookin' for a girl. Fifteen or fourteen, like. She was wearing pink."

McCree is regarded with sudden hostility on the Omnic's part, and confusion by the teenage girl. Her robotic voice thrums calmly on, vaguely reminding him of Athena. "Why… why are you looking for her?"

He's aware of just how suspicious he may appear, but it's not something he can help. So he drawls on, that charming smile still curled up on his face, hopefully doing something for his position. "I'm an…" _…escort…_ "…a friend of hers. She was with me yesterday and then she ran off. Said she was coming here."

Speaking of which- why wasn't Hana coming out? Instead, she was leaving these poor folk to deal with him on their own. He frowns, more than a little pissed that she's blatantly ignoring him, when the Omnic exchanges a silent glance with the teenager.

Then- "She's been missing since last night."

"She was with me," corrects McCree, before the news hits him full on. "Hold on a mo'- she didn' come back here?"

"She leave," says the teenager shortly with a dark scowl. "Not come back."

_I take back everything. Hana Song, you are a goddamn idiot._

He could go try to find her, but now that she doesn't have the transceiver, his GPS is practically worthless. Waiting for her to come here, to the address she had _said_ she was going to, was the best possible option for him.

The Omnic catches on quickly. "Would you like to wait here for her?" she offers, ignoring the teenager's hushed " _Umma!"_

"That would help a lot, ma'am," says McCree politely. Another tip of the hat- he's been awful generous with those lately- and, just to make sure, "Yer certain she isn't here?"

"Hana? No, no she isn't," says the Omnic. She bows, a slight bend at the waist. "My name is Amin Lee. This is Tara Lee. You are…?"

"Matthew Mercer. Pleased to meet you, Missus Lee," he says with a grin. He liked her. Calm, confident, and polite even to the scruffy stranger at her door. Damn sharp, too, noticing his predicament instantly.

As for the girl…

" _Kkujuh,_ " mutters Tara angrily. She stalks off, rubbing her head.

"Now I'm no expert with Korean," comments McCree drily as he steps inside, "but that sounded mighty rude to me." _She doesn't like Hana or somethin'?_

"Tara," warns Amin. "Be polite." Her head swivels to peer owlishly at McCree, and her voice is clearly sheepish. "I apologize for her; she's not the most…"

McCree waves her apology away. "It's ok. Ain't no perfect teenager in the world."

_Least of all Hana. Where the actual_ fuck _is she?_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cultural Notes:  
> K-dramas- Korean dramas are exactly what you'd suspect- episodic dramas produced in Korea- but just like any drama, they tend to follow their tropes, and mysterious-stranger-with-a-dark-past-meets-the-protoganist-because-of-some-quirk-of-fate-before-vanishing is one of them, though the protagonist is usually a lonely single lady while the mysterious stranger is some random hot dude…
> 
> Korean entertainment, especially K-pop and K-dramas, is very popular in Asia.
> 
> Hospitality- Politeness towards guests is a biggie in Korea. A host is obligated to make sure the guest is comfortable at their home (whether or not they actually like them xD)
> 
> Translation Notes:
> 
> Amigos- 'Friends', masculine form. Hoo, we're breaking out la español.
> 
> pequeña muchacha- Little girl. The tilde over the 'n' in pequeña makes it pronounced Pe-ke-nya, as if someone snuck a Y into there.
> 
> Jajangmyun- Noodles with black bean sauce and vegetables that classifies as 'Korean-Chinese cuisine', that is to say, food that originates from China but is influenced by Korean ingredients. In Korea, Chinese restraunts are fairly common and jajangmyun is a popular delivery food, sort of like how people order pizza in the U.S.
> 
> "-oorirer nado nende, wen kerunsaramer-" – "-just left us, why that kind of person-" So in Korean, the subject comes before the verb a lot ('Why that kind of person should we care about?' as opposed to in English, where it would be 'Why should we care about that kind of person?')Therefore if it were an English sentence, it would be the less literal translation of "-just left us, why should we care-"
> 
> UMMA! YUGIWABA- MOM! COME HERE! (Informal)
> 
> "Debituh carduh kajuhkayo-" – "Do you take debit card?" Once again the subject (Debituh carduh, which is a direct import from the English 'Debit card') comes before the verb (kajuhkayo, 'do you take it'.) Also, it's a formal sentence (ends with -yo! Remember? :) )
> 
> Ahnyunghaseo – Works as both 'Hello' and Goodbye', in this case used as 'Hello.' Formal (ends in -o!)
> 
> Kkujuh- Fuck off, like from yesterday, but lacking the -yo that would make it formal.
> 
> A/N:
> 
> Hoo boy, who's ready for a lot of Hana's secrets to be revealed.
> 
> Jfb17 asks:
> 
> "Just wondering, what are the plans for the story as a whole? Do you plan on ending it once Hana finally gets to a safe place with overwatch? Or are you going to continue on past that into her training and beyond?"
> 
> That's a good question that I'd love to answer. Unfortunately, I can't without major spoilers, so you'll have to settle for a partial answer instead ^^
> 
> Hana is not going to end up where she wants to end up by the end of this fic. That's what sequels are for *wink wink* That being said, a sequel is pretty far away. I think we've reached around the halfway point with this story, so it's nowhere close to ending yet!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments and follows. I read all of them! Here's to many more chapters, and also holy fuck the Legendary difficulty on the PVE for Normal Heroes in the Insurrection event is effing impossible!
> 
> -Tex


	18. the other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist: Hana is actually DVA.

The cowboy is sitting with Amin. Tara quietly stares.

They're chuckling over something at the kitchen table- Mercer's laugh is hearty and loud, while Amin's is low and soft. She's pretty sure that the laughter was instigated by the cowboy, who, despite his appearance, is somewhat socially adept.

She stares, hard.

Matthew Mercer. He hasn't relinquished that absurd hat of his yet, despite Amin's insistences that he put it up on the coathanger with his serape (which also remains stubbornly draped over the man's shoulders.) He has yet to light a cigarette in Amin's presence, but the musk of smoke that hangs around him is telling.

He's tall and lanky and big and definitely an athlete of some sort- too lean to be a bodybuilder, maybe a boxer? He's got the right chest girth for it. However, even Tara with her years of sporting knowledge can't pinpoint exactly what this man does. His build is all over the place, and that metallic arm of his is definitely throwing her off.

Mercer begins to speak again. He has deep, honest eyes. Tara scowls.

A friend of Hana's, apparently, though Tara can't see the quiet, sullen girl being friends with this loud and extroverted man. He'd waltzed into their living space with a bold claim and made himself at home equally boldly. Everything about him screamed strangeness.

However, perhaps the strangest thing of all is that Amin seems completely fine with him.

Tara loses her StarCraft game. That was to be expected; she hadn't been paying attention to her match, and the extent of her response to the defeat is a whispered _fuck_. She pretends to peruse through the DVA Alert news feed while eavesdropping on the adults' conversation:

"-travel a lot, y'see, an' I made some friends on the way."

Amin's voice, quietly contemplative, drifts from the kitchen. "You came to Korea to see Hana?"

By contrast, McCree's voice seems to boom without being intentionally loud, filing the air with its smooth drawl. "Yes ma'am. Family friend wanted me to watch over her. He's a quirky fellow from Japan that's rather close to her."

Mercer seems like the kind of guy you call when you're too drunk to drive yourself home from the bar. Dependable enough to rely on, and does casually stupid things often enough to be non-judgmental of your own stupid actions. So why does Tara just innately dislike him so much?

_Maybe because he's lying._

"You're from America, then?" asks Amin politely.

What an unnecessary question. Tara holds back a snort. Of course he is American; Matthew Mercer is the most _aggressively_ American man she has ever seen. Korea has its share of visiting Americans, sure, but most don't wear… well. Whatever the hell Mercer is wearing.

"Sure am. I don' really know my way around this place," he says with a chuckle. Tara can imagine him kicked back in one of the chairs. "Never been to Korea before."

"I hope you enjoy your stay," says Amin politely with her impeccable English. Which was another surprise. Tara didn't know that Amin had an English library downloaded- as far she knew, Amin only ever spoke Korean. How strange.

Then again, Amin had once been some man's housekeeping Omnic, so perhaps it wasn't her choice in the first place. Though… why would a Korean man need an entire English library downloaded onto Amin's disk? That bothers her.

Yes.

_That bothers me…_

Her fingers begin to tap slowly on the laptop. The back of her neck prickles.

For as long as Tara can remember, Amin had been the same three things: kind, intelligent, and reasonable. She'd been just eight when Amin had picked her up off the streets, promising safety and kindness and all these things Tara had never heard of before. Initial distrust eventually gave way to love when Tara realized that _yes._ Unlike her biological mother, Amin will never abandon her.

She'd always passed Amin's unchanging nature off as a byproduct of being an Omnic. It's strange to think that Amin too has a past, and that Amin's personality has indeed been molded by time.

Tara's world isn't _hers_ anymore. It's been taken over by Hana, and then by this man. People she doesn't understand anything about, and then- to think that even Amin had something secretly hidden away, something that hinted at Amin not being the Amin Tara knew-

"What sort of work do you do in America?" asks Amin, and Tara stops tapping her fingers to listen more intently.

"I own cows. And horses. Mainly cows, though," huffs Mercer with a broad grin. "My ranch is small, but it's finer than frog's hair, it is. We produce some great cuts of meat. How about you, Missus Lee?"

A rancher? That would explain his physique. His metal arm, a farming accident, perhaps.

_But no. No, something still feels off._

Amin hums. "I'm an interior designer and architect. Tara- that's my daughter- she's not out of high school yet, but she teaches taekwondo at a local academy. As for Hana…"

Tara turns her head, just slightly, to see the man's expression. He's visibly more tensed now. _Aha. We're entering the realm of sensitive questions._

"Hana was on the run, it seems, when we found her." Amin's faceplate is inscrutable as always, though her lights flash a soothing blue. She's being careful. Too careful. "And she was… well…"

 _Oh, just spit out!_ Tara stands, and her voice is just a few decibels higher than she intended it to be.

"Covered in blood."

Both Mercer and Amin turn to look at her.

Tara meets Mercer's gaze with a glare. "Explain how that happen?"

The silence is excruciating. The smile has completely dropped off of Mercer's face now, in favor of a grim stare.

Amin starts, low and worried. "Tara-"

"Amin." She breaks into Korean, so that this man may not understand what he simply _cannot_ understand- that Tara has no idea what's going on and that her life is spiraling out of control, and control is all Tara has ever wanted.

"There is no time to be _cordial._ We need to get to the bottom of this, this entire thing with Hana, and- and we need to start by asking _questions!_ "

She points at Mercer with a scowl, switches rapidly into awkward English. "YOU! EXPLAIN WHO HANA IS." Tara stalks out from behind the couch, so that she may glower down at the seated Mercer. "WHAT KNOW ABOUT HER?"

Tara had only spent one lonely afternoon playing StarCraft with Hana, trash-talking her every turn of the way. They shared a bowl of Dorados and cackled at the orange stains they left all over the furniture.

Unlike the infinitely more motherly Amin, Tara wouldn't say so much that she's _attached_ to the girl, but rather, she feels oddly sorry for her- like a lost puppy that's run away, and has been secretly bothering her since.

Mercer doesn't try and bluff his way out, which would've made her angry.

Instead, he says nothing, opting for a "hmm!" and rubbing his chin, which makes her positively furious.

Tara's voice becomes a growl. "I. Am. Warning. You."

Mercer stays resolutely silent. Tara can almost see the gears turning in his head, finding a way out. There's no use; what explanation could he possibly offer to justify Hana's situation?

"What, then? _Mar harkuga upsuhyo?_ You have nothing to say?" she taunts.

Amin stands, pushing her chair back with a loud grating sound, and her voice is steely with forced politeness. "Tara, that's enough-"

No. It's not even close to _enough_.

She's so, so close to finally ending this mystery- and that's what drives her to grab the front of the cowman's ridiculous serape, demanding answers, and Amin begins shouting at her and the cowman is saying something oddly quiet about backing off-

There's a flash of metal and Tara stumbles backwards, letting go of the rough fabric, because she recognizes- she recognizes the thing he's holding- no, _pointing at her head._

A gun.

Her first instinct is to raise her hands halfway, and to take another step back.

Her second, slightly stupider instinct is to say _that's illegal in Korea._

Mercer's hat overshadows his face. Amin lets out a metallic gasp that's gut-wrenchingly concerned, but instead of taking a step back, she takes a step forward. Towards Tara.

"I didn't want to do this," he says conversationally. The man towers over her- he's so fucking _tall-_ and the air around him feels charged with tension. "But you looked about ready to tear off my face, so. Tha's that."

Tara is not easily scared. She never has been, even when she was just a kid, and she'd like to believe that nothing can frighten her anymore.

The fear that trickles down her spine tells her otherwise.

At least she was correct. Matthew Mercer is a _liar._ Just like Hana. Tara doesn't know whether she wants to delve further into this, or just kick him out of the house. Not that she can do either, even if she wants to- the gun effectively pins her in place.

"So," she growls, hands still drifting halfway between the positions of _I surrender_ and _I'm flipping you off._ "That is nice gun you have. For a farmer."

"Mr. Mercer," says Amin, calmer than humanly possible. She scoots towards Tara with slow, exaggerated motions, metallic feet scraping the bare floor. "Let's- let's be civil, here. She-"

It's then that the door swings open, entirely too loud and entirely too fast. All heads snap towards the door.

Standing there is a skinny girl in an oversize jacket and a clunky pair of boots.

Right before Tara's eyes, all hell breaks loose.

" _McCree?_ " Hana Song asks, aghast, while Tara blurts " _Hana?_ What the hell-"

Apparently it's then that Hana realizes that her cowman is pointing a gun at Tara, because she rounds on him with a louder, even shriller "MCCREE! What the actual FUCK are you doing here? WHO THE HELL D'YOU THINK YOU'RE AIMING THAT GUN AT?"

"HANA, WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?" yells Tara in angry Korean, fury wiping all traces of fear from her mind like an all-consuming flood. "TELL HIM TO BACK OFF, OR I _SWEAR_ -"

Hana needs no further encouragement. She turns, ever the pint-size terror, and positively screeches at the cowman, "McCree- what- why- just – just _put down the fucking gun!_ "

Mercer- no, _McCree,_ which is an even more Western name- seems overly reluctant to let go of the thing. " Song, yer friend here's going to-"

"-kick your ass, you deserve it-" snarls Tara, because he lied to her and now she feels like an utter _fool-_

Hana seizes McCree's arm, unsuccessfully attempting to shove it down and away from Tara's face. "For Heaven's sake, what is she gonna do? Tara's only seventeen! What are you again? A _fossil_? Put the gun down-"

McCree curses, slides the revolver back into his holster with unnecessary flourish, and continues with a frankly insulting "Ignore 'em and let's just ditch this place-"

"If you just leave I will _cut you,_ " warns Tara, and her first wild impulse is to threaten the ridiculous pair with the nearest fork.

"I only came 'ere," and real anger begins to peak through McCree's calm façade, "to retrieve Song. We're leavin', and there ain't'-"

"No, we're not," yells Hana stubbornly. "I came all the way here-"

Amin's words cut through the air like God's own knife, the shining voice of reason amidst the raging battlefield.

" _Everyone, please calm down."_

And like a heavenly miracle, the room falls silent.

Tara scowls as she eyes Amin, who picks her way between Tara and the opposing Hana and McCree. She's not big by any definition, what with her slender form, but she's tall- taller than most Omnics- and even towers over McCree.

The cowman apparently feels threatened by her presence, and Hana has to slap away his hand away from where it is inching towards the revolver.

"Mr. McCree," pronounces Amin carefully in a modulated hum. It's impossible for Tara to detect any hints of anger or frustration in her voice. The perks to having a synthetic voice. "Normally, my guests are free to leave whenever they choose. But in this case…"

Her head swivels smoothly on its neck of wires, towards Hana.

"I feel that we are deserving of an explanation."

"Don't have one," mutters McCree, only to gruntas Hana elbows him sharply in the side.

"Amin-nim. Tara," says Hana firmly in Korean. Her feet are placed at shoulder width, planted into the ground with an air of immovability. "First of all, let me apologize for this total idiot. I don't think he has many friends."

She shoots McCree a nasty look. He raises an eyebrow. "Mind speakin' a language I understand?"

In Korean- "Unfortunately, I do." She turns back towards their direction, and her shoulders sag slightly. "Anyways. I just came back to say… to say goodbye. That was all I had planned. I didn't intend for any of this to happen. If you would just forgive me, I'd do any-"

_She thinks she can just ask 'forgiveness' and walk away?_

_Bullshit._

Hana's eyes are round with apprehension when Tara walks towards her. Jabs a finger into the girl's chest. Saying the words is like incinerating a thousand-kilogram burden that's been weighing on her mind for what feels like ages.

"Who the hell _are_ you?"

Because Hana is a mysterious intruder on her life.

Because Hana has an armed guard that would look at home in any spaghetti western.

_(Because Hana had been fun to play StarCraft with.)_

_(Because Hana might be a decent person, so why all the lies?)_

McCree and Amin hover uncertainly around her and Hana. Perhaps they want to intervene. Let them try; Tara will take on anyone right now, gun or no gun. She just wants _answers._

Hana's brows draw together, and her response is robotic. "Hana Song. Fourteen or fifteen years old. I already told you this."

"You did _what?"_ sputters the cowboy from the side, as if introducing yourself by your actual name is simply unheard of.

"That doesn't tell me anything," points out Tara. She points a wayward thumb at McCree. "Who the hell is he? And speak in Korean, so that he can't understand."

Hana's eyes shift towards him, and suddenly lowers towards the ground. Her voice is soft and childlike, like it had been when Tara first met her. "My… um… escort."

Escort? What for? "You said you were homeless," Tara snaps.

"I am."

"You're on the run?"

"…Yes."

Tara narrows her eyes. "Who are you running from that's making you travel with a gun-toting cowboy?"

McCree grunts reluctantly. "Listen, I'd sure 'ppreciate it if you spoke in a language I can understand-"

"Shut up, McCree." Hana chews, slowly, on what's probably four sticks of bubble gum. "I'm..."

The girl's resolve visibly strengthens. Hana straightens her back, tosses back her hair with a scowl.

"I'm joining Overwatch."

Tara stares. Hana's cheeks go slightly pink, but she stares defiantly back.

Of all the things that Tara was expecting to hear _(I'm a criminal heiress, the yakuza are after me, I robbed a bank and now I'm on the run)_ , this made the absolute least sense.

Because. After all. Overwatch is deader than Tara's parents.

Perhaps McCree can understand English very well and Korean not at all, but 'Overwatch' is an unmistakable word in either language. His frown equals Tara's as he steps towards Hana, and consequently, distances himself from Amin. "Song, they shouldn't know this."

"They have every right to know." Hana crosses her arms, tone suddenly brisk and informative. "McCree is taking me to Seoul, where I'll be meeting the reformed Overwatch. There's a terrorist cell on my ass called Talon. They chased me here from Juseong, y'know, that little town that's nearby. My previous… escort got hurt and that's where all that blood was from, in case you were wondering. Life sucks and I'm probably going to die."

A terrorist organization? Hana- she'd been covered in blood, sure, but a _terrorist organization?_ "Wait, why would a terrorist-"

Hana ducks her head, avoiding eye contact with her. "Wait. Let me finish."

Now, Tara is by no means patient. But something about the way Hana looks at her- silently begging her to stay quiet for just a little longer- stitches her mouth shut.

McCree has crossed his arms and somehow lit a cigarillo in the millisecond Tara hadn't been paying attention to him, filling the air with the heady scent of nicotine. The look on his face reads _pissed off, but curious._ Something Tara can sympathize with, for once. Amin's head is tilted owlishly to one side.

Hana continues. "By being here I'm putting you in danger, yada yada ya. So… we're going to leave. I just, um, wanted to tell you. Before I do."

"You can stay for as long as you like," says Amin immediately in English. "You and Mister McCree both. If you really are in trouble-"

"Tha's much appreciated, ma'am, but we wouldn't want to take advantage of yer hospitality for any longer," finishes McCree smoothly. His eyes form silent daggers at Hana. "We shouldn't have ever come 'ere in the first place. Hana is telling the truth; we're not safe to be around."

"But _why?_ " The words tumble from Tara's mouth. "Why would anyone go after you? Why would- why would anyone _want_ you?"

Hana hesitates. She looks at McCree, who simply shrugs.

"Cat's out of the bag. Tell her if you want," he drawls with pretend carelessness.

Hana turns back towards Tara. A bitter smile peeks through her stony face like a crack in a mask.

"The only reason why anyone wants me is because I have the fastest reaction time in the world. You see, I'm pretty good at games," she explains. "They think that those skills can translate… into robot-driving or something; they weren't entirely clear on that part."

Eh?

"I was under the impression," says Tara carefully, hands on her waist, "that the fastest reaction time in the world belongs to, uh, this streamer. Called DVA."

Hana shrugs, shoving her hands into the jacket pockets. She scuffs at the floor with a booted foot. "You wouldn't be… incorrect."

A bubble of gum slowly swells to life at Hana's lips. She's obviously watching Tara very carefully for a reaction.

Tara is briefly bewildered.

"You're not DVA, though."

"Why can't I be?"

The gum goes _pop._

_**Eh?** _

"You're saying-"

"You were wondering why I'm so good at StarCraft, right?" Hana smiles at Tara, the corner of her lip twitching as she does. "When I left my house, I obviously couldn't stream anymore, so… yeah. That's why she- I mean, I have been missing."

A silent five seconds follow.

Hana adds helpfully, "I'm DVA."

Another five seconds. Hana's words take a while to sink in, like a flailing truth through the quicksand of Tara's mind.

When it finally hits the bottom- _no._

_NO WAY._

A shriek jumps from Tara's lips, totally involuntary and totally , McCree, and Hana all jump in surprise as she stomps over to the couch, picks up the holoboard, and hurls it discus-style at Hana.

McCree looks ready to jump forward and intercept it, but Hana's hands shoot out and snatch the thing out of the air with ease. Tara is practically shouting now-

"LOG IN." She stabs at the holoboard with her finger. "Prove it." She refuses to believe that this scruffy fifteen-year-old girl is the DVA she's been watching for years now, less because she thinks Hana isn't skilled enough, and more so because she just can't be DVA- the one with the high-pitched voice and the childish giggle, the one that seemed so fucking _happy_ all the time-

Hana shrugs and props the holoboard open. Clicks on Starcraft. Tara leans over her shoulder, staring as Hana's fingers scuttle like spiders over the keyboard.

A tap of the _Enter_ key, and she's in.

**Welcome back, DVA**

The look on Hana's face is expectant as she turns to look at Tara, who is only vaguely aware of her presence. The letters seem to bore into her eyes.

_DVA._

"What the fuck," breathes Tara. McCree leans over her to peer at the holoboard as well through squinted eyes.

"Yer famous, Song?" he asks curiously. Hana shrugs again.

"In a way." She sounds so damned _casual,_ as if being fucking DVA- #1 World StarCraft player and hailed as a gaming _god-_ is absolutely nothing. "I… thought it would be awkward if I told you."

"Holy shit." Tara takes the holoboard from her, as if maybe the _Welcome back, DVA_ would somehow disappear if she were not constantly looking at it. "How the fuck? I-" She turns, the revelation hitting her like a sledgehammer.

"Were you holding back?" she demands. "When we played." Because no matter how insane Hana Song's abilities are, DVA's abilities are better by far.

Hana bites her lip as she shrugs uncomfortably again. "I… uh… well, you knew about me, so I didn't want to take any risks…"

Tara had always privately assumed that DVA was in her mid-twenties, maybe early thirties- after all, the enigmatic gamer streamed all day, even during school hours. To think that someone could get so good at a game by the age of fifteen is almost incomprehensible to her.

DVA. Hana. _One and the same._ Tara would be fangirling if it weren't for the fact that- well- it's not just anyone that is DVA, it's this… it's fucking _Hana_ that's DVA- a homeless street urchin with nary a penny to her name.

But then again, why else not? Hana has that vaguely familiar, childlike voice. She has the skills, obviously. She has the looks- cute and perky, like any popular female streamer- though unlike them, she doesn't use her looks to gain views, carefully ridding her online presence of any photos.

_But then again-_

Hana shifts self-consciously. "Do I have something on my face?"

She just can't get over the strange disconnect between Hana and DVA. DVA spoke like Life was her favorite relative, and she loved him with all her heart. Hana spoke like Life was dead to her.

"You're so _different,_ " concludes Tara with a scowl. She bites the inside of her cheek as she tilts her head, studying a flushed Hana from all angles. "It's like you're two different people. Like... _goddamn."_

Hana makes jazz hands and says dryly, "Well, it's not like I can draw viewers in with my charming personality as is, eh? Oh, there _is_ something on my face. Ew."

Tara watches, dazed, as Hana scrapes flecks of mud off of her cheek.

This is the StarCraft idol that sweeps the competitions. Watched by millions. The one Tara has watched on many a lazy afternoon with hanging jaw and wide eyes.

 _I've listened to Hana's voice for hours,_ Tara realizes through her stupor, _without meeting her even once._

It was a part of her schedule. Go home, pop open Twitch, get on the DVA stream, and listen absentmindedly while she does homework. Like clockwork, that had been what Tara did every single day. How was it possible that Tara hadn't recognized Hana for who she really was from the very beginning?

 _Or... more accurately, who_ DVA _was from the very beginning?_

McCree clears his throat.

"Well, I've been, er, lost for the past twenty minutes. Care to fill me in? In _English?"_

* * *

_Cultural Notes:_

_Homogeneity: First off, if anyone thinks I'm portraying Koreans as racist for staring at/acting strange around McCree, I apologize. That was not my intent._

_HERE'S WHERE MY INNER GEOPOLITICAL ANALYSIS GEEK COMES OUT HOLY FUCK I'M SORRY TO MY ENTIRE NERD-TEASING FOOTBALL TEAM I AM ONE OF THEM_

_South Korea is a very homogenous country- the vast majority of Koreans are ethnic Koreans, in fact many Koreans don't personally know one other person of a different race. So it's less that Koreans are racist and more of, you literally don't know that many people of different races in Korea. I'm just your average white guy, but even I felt a little conspicuous when I visited Busan. That isn't to say that they were rude to me or anything- I met a lot of people, and all were super kind and polite._

_Of course, big cities in places like Busan are slowly becoming melting pots, and therefore becoming more racially diverse over time. So I'm not saying your average white man will get singled out on the streets like McCree._

_Then again, your average white man is not fully decked out in cowboy gear._

_So, yeah. Make of that what you will Xp_

_Starcraft 2: Immensely popular in Korea; also the login doesn't actually say "Welcome back [USERNAME] but let's just say whatever version of StarCraft they have in the future does._

* * *

**pdating his current situation or not) please comment it!** Once a general consensus is reached I will act upon it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> I've been reading through your guys' comments. They make me so happy. They also suggest some common themes and opinions about the story, which I will be responding to by modifying the plot accordingly :)
> 
> One very, VERY common question that is being asked is where is Genji? When is he coming back? It's been asked so often that I'm considering writing a little segment next chapter with what he's doing right now, because the last time we heard from him, he was bleeding and being chased down by Talon.
> 
> So if you have an opinion on this matter (whether I should write that segment u


	19. La valse d'amelie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things seem peaceful enough. At Tara's house, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> In regards to the Genji cameo… opinions were almost perfectly split. One thing that most people agreed on was that I should make the choice, in the end. So I decided to postpone his re-entrance for now!
> 
> (but for how long? :)))) )
> 
> Now back to your regularly scheduled showing of The Life of Hana Song…

 

DVA waves brightly at the screen, though she knows her millions of viewers, however glued to their screens they may be, can't see her. "Hey everyone!"

The chat goes wild. Messages scroll by in a rainbow, ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)-filled blur. Too quickly to really read, though she can pick up a vague sense of bewilderment and excitement.

DVA grins.

She has to admit, it's real nice to be back.

Tara nudges Hana and hisses, "Hurry up! The excitement is probably killing them." The couch lets out a long-suffering creak as the older girl rocks impatiently by Hana's side, making it obvious that she was just as excited as the others.

"As you wish, madam. Let's pick up where we left off," DVA chirps cheerily into the mic. StarCraft blips up onto the holoboard screen.

"Shall we play a game?"

McCree is halfway convinced that Hana has been replaced by a clone. A bubbly, bright, smooth-talking clone engineered to be the most generically likable girl ever. Yammering away at the mic like talking to inanimate objects is second nature.

So this is why Overwatch wants the girl so badly. He watches as the word VICTORY pops up on the holoboard, much to the excitement of Tara and bored acknowledgement of Hana. Victory after victory flashes by, with the intense clicking of the keyboard acting as a sort of intermission between each.

 _The fastest reaction time in the world._ McCree would need ten more hands to count all the practical applications of such a skill on his fingers. She would be useful to Overwatch. (She would be equally useful to Talon.)

From his position at the guest room doorway, he can only half see Tara's face. Her stunned look of disbelief has morphed into genuine excitement as she points at the screen, shouting something in Korean. Hana laughs, shouts something back, and for a moment McCree can forget what incredible danger they're in-

"-cree. Mister McCree."

Amin seems to appear out of thin air, her voice calmly robotic as always. The Omnic can be unnervingly quiet for a being of her size.

He acknowledges her with a slight chin lift. "What's going on, missus?"

Amin answers him in a sort of roundabout way. "Enjoying the view? Watching over children is always nice. It's like seeing the future grow before our eyes."

McCree snorts. "Our 'future' banks on bowls of chips and video games, then."

Amin lets out a soft, low laugh, before turning to gaze at the two. "Would that be so bad? Just relaxing all day. No conflict, and nothing to worry about." Her voice sounds wistful- a mechanical approximation of some character's longing words in some romantic chick flick. Entrenched with true, _human_ desire.

He shakes off the odd chill it sends down his spine. "Fer old farts like me, hell yes it would be 'that bad'. Not fer Hana, though. I don't play those games, but looking at her now- even I can tell she's good at 'em."

"So you didn't know she was a good gamer before today?"

It's a thinly veiled accusation. One that McCree doesn't feel the need to refute. Call him a piece of shit, sure, because he'd blatantly lied, but he'd fess up if they caught him in the act with no hard feelings.

"Don't know nothing about Hana," he admits nonchalantly. "We met just last night. All I'm doin' is acting as a stand-in for her previous escort."

Amin's joints go _click click click_ as she taps her fingers impatiently against her arm. "So- nothing about her parents? Family? Where she is from? Where she is going?" Her voice is imploring. "Please, McCree- she is a _child._ "

_A child._

Even if she didn't tell him herself, McCree knows that Hana's parents are irresponsible pieces of shit. Who allows their young daughter to go off with a Japanese robot-man claiming to belong to a long-dead organization?

As for where Hana is from, that's something he knows- she's from Busan. He can just imagine how that conversation would go: _How do I know that? Oh, I was using a GPS tracker to watch her coordinates for the past week…_

What he eventually ends up saying is, "I already told you I dunno anything."

He narrows his eyes into the blue flare of Amin's lights. "'Sides, what do you care none?"

Because the kid is as much of a stranger to Amin as she is to McCree.

"She is a person, and in need of help," says Amin smoothly. "What other reason do I need?"

The Omnic reminds him of one of those Nepalese Omnic priests. The ones that Lena always made him listen to back in Gibraltar. " _Hey, Jesse, isn't this cool? Omnic equality. Imagine that!"_

He'd scoffed at her and her precious Tekartha Mondotta every single time. " _Things like 'Omnic equality' can't be achieved peacefully, Lena. Justice ain't gonna dispense itself."_

Amin starts tapping her arm again, bringing his attention back to the present. "How long can you and Hana stay?"

Not how long _are_ you going to stay, how long _can_ you stay. McCree doesn't bother pretend that he's not suspicious of Amin's motivations.

"What's it to you, anyways? If I were you, I'd want my 'guests' to be outta my hair as fast as possible."

Amin's blue lights flash. There's one in the center of her faceplate, squarish and reminding him of a Bastion's eye, and a circular one on the strange metallic crest of her head. "Out of my… hair?"

He waves a gloved hand. "It's just an expression. I meant, don't you want us to leave?" After all, they'd openly admitted to being the target of a global terrorist organization. Not exactly people you'd welcome with open arms.

The Omnic seems rather offended by this, though her voice betrays nothing, as usual.

"Hana is a nice girl." She gazes at Tara and Hana, who are now intensely focused on the holoboard screen. "If you are her… guardian, than by extension, you must be a nice man. Neither of you deserve this."

McCree huffs. "Tha's debatable. I straight lied to y'all."

"To protect everyone."

Their words starting bouncing back and forth like ping-pong balls.

"I wasn't willing to protect you folks."

"To protect yourself and Hana, then."

"I'd ditch her if it came down to it."

"Only natural. You hardly know her."

"You hardly know her, and _yer_ looking out for her."

"Unlike you, I'm not on the run."

McCree tilts his head. "We both killed people on our way here."

Even at that Amin's voice immediately pings back, synthetically reasonable as always, like an automatic answering machine. "Oh, you poor man."

Now that- _that_ really rubs McCree the wrong way. He swings his gaze towards Amin, letting a hint of a threat seep into his voice.

" _What,_ " he growls, "do you _want?_ "

"The same thing as you." Amin is really starting to remind McCree of Athena, with her annoyingly unflappable attitude, except with the pressing morals of Tracer somehow added on. "For everyone to be safe. People shouldn't have to run away."

He stares at her for a moment. Then he snorts and looks back towards the kids. They're letting out loud victory whoops of _daebak!,_ whatever the hell that means.

It slips from him before he can stop it. "You'd know something about that, eh?"

Amin's lights flash again, brighter. "Pardon?"

McCree points at the lettering under her eye. He'd killed… _seen_ enough Omnics to know about them and their ways, and how important model numbers are.

OR154's, security bots, good. Until the Omnic Crisis. Bastions, created by Torbjorn to fight for Overwatch, good. Until the Omnic Crisis.

ET-03's, simple civilians, good until-

 _Calm the fuck down, Jesse. ET-03s are generally harmless. It's not the Omnic Crisis anymore_ , he chides himself. It was a funny thing- that he'd fought in the Omnic Crisis to protect humans and robots alike, only to have these strange little feelings of distrust against them robots after winning the war.

"Yer classified as a 'free' Omnic. No masters." He takes a drag from the cigarillo, the smoke curling down his lungs and making him want to cough, and then pulls it away from his lips. "Except, for you, it's a sticker. Yer covering up yer actual number, huh? That means you had a master once. What were you? A serving Omnic?"

Amin recoils. "How-"

"It don't matter how many people you can fool with that. Least, not to me." The cigarillo dangles from his fingertips, lazy threads of smoke wisping from its end. "But the thing is, missus, even a perfectly respectable citizen like you has secrets you don't wanna splurge about, see? Same goes for me. The only difference is, yer secret still lets you settle down." McCree uses his metallic arm to gesture towards the kids. At Tara. "Have someone to care about you. Not everyone gets that luxury. I certainly don't. And neither does the kid."

The response is immediate. "I can take her in."

He nearly drops the cigarillo. " _What?_ "

"I said, I can take Hana in." Amin's lights glow in the relative darkness of the doorway. "We are perfectly equipped to handle three people in this apartment. It will be a little cramped, but-"

Crazy. Insane. He takes back everything; Amin is most definitely _not_ calm and reasonable.

"There's a terrorist organization after her," McCree says impatiently. "Are you 'perfectly equipped' to take care of a Talon cell?"

Amin hums thoughtfully. "You could stay with us. I assume that the gun is not entirely for show."

Instinct demands that he drop the burnt-out cigarillo and grind its smoldering tip into the carpet, until he reminds himself that firstly, he's in some lady's house, and second, he's not even wearing shoes. It's been a while since he's spent so much time indoors.

"I don't know what it is you have done in the past, Mr. McCree," assures Amin calmly. "And I can assure you that I do not care. I consider myself a good judge of character. I think you are a good man."

Oh, it would be so easy to change her mind. He's fairly certain there's still some footage left of his combat operations in London, despite his efforts to purge them off his record.

In this day and age, the world simply does not forget.

Amin forges on, earnest as can be. "If not for your sake, then stay for Hana. I… I do not know where it is you are supposed to be taking her, but even I can tell it's dangerous. If she- if you both stay here, you can lead normal lives for as long as you want. Months to years, I do not care."

The _no_ dies on his lips as he, very foolishly, entertains the thought of staying. The thought immediately spirals out of control into an outlandish daydream.

He thinks- dreams, more like- of staying a couple months at the Lee residence. Shopping at the market. Cooking dinner, maybe- his _chili con carne_ is to die for. Watching Tara and Hana act their age, fooling around with games and going to school. Falling for boys- or girls, whatever their preference- and generally acting like little fools.

Then once the bounty hunters catch wind of his location, vanishing into the night, leaving the little girl from that one side mission in a place that is guaranteed to be safe.

It's funnier than it is bittersweet.

"Missus," he chuckles, "I have a forty million dollar bounty on my head. Eventually, them bounty hunters will be coming to collect."

Amin tils her head. For some reason, her lack of an appropriately panicked response pisses him off.

"Let's say," McCree continues dryly, "I fend 'em off. Somehow. Then you know who's coming after us too? _Talon._ And 'cuz they know I'm here with y'all, they'll be sending top agents."

His arm twitches towards his revolver. _A swirling pillar of smoke, a ghastly laugh, a bone-white mask-_

"Tell me, missus. Have you ever met the reaper?"

Amin stares unflinchingly back. "You are in trouble. And so is Hana. Let me help you."

 _Do you understand,_ he wants to spit, _what you are saying? What is wrong with you? Be scared. Turn us away._

 _Don't offer something so_ tempting.

"No _._ " He turns away. " _No._ Don't even try."

This isn't the world of a dreaming sixteen-year-old boy, the one that pretends that donning a cowboy hat makes him a hero. This is a world that will never allow McCree to settle down, to stay at the same place for longer than three days.

It's the world he's created by becoming who he is- a rogue vigilante that doles out his own little brand of 'justice' wherever he sees fit.

And so it's the world that he firmly accepts with tipped hat and loaded gun.

"The first question is from 'A', calls DVA into the mic. She noisily crunches on a handful of Dorados, speaks through her chewing.

"'A' says: Where were you?" She hums loudly in pretend-thought. "And that's a very good question… Let's just say I was on vacation! I haven't had a vacation in _years,_ as my long-time fans will know!"

The message board goes crazy. Hana half-expects the donations to start pinging in, though she hasn't enabled the donation system on Tara's holo yet. Too many security risks. Her inner sixty-year-old stingy _ajumma_ secretly cries at all the money she's potentially losing.

"The question from 'Shavertwin1', and she says 'who's the girl that's with you? What's she saying?'" Hana raises an eyebrow at Tara, who raises an eyebrow back.

"What does the comment say?" Tara asks suspiciously in Korean.

A smile jumps to DVA's face as Tara's inquiry goes completely ignored.

She speaks into the mic with her most sarcastically cute voice. "The girl who's talking is my friend Doofus. Doofus doesn't speak English very well, and all of you who don't understand her Korean should be glad! She's a tooootal potty-mouth..."

The chat is flooded with 'KAPPA's. Tara recognizes the change in chat behavior immediately, and turns on Hana. "Hey, what did you-"

"NEXT QUESTION!" interrupts Hana, much to Tara's chagrin. She squints at the screen. "This one's from 'TraceofSilver'. Uh…. will I be streaming regularly again? Umm, no, I wish I could! But vacay's going to have to last a lil' longer, ok?"

The chat shifts from disappointment to confusion, and then to general speculation. DVA grins- _that'll keep them busy for a while-_ before she signs off with a, "That's it for today! See you guys next time. DVA out."

She presses the power button. The holoboard screen flickers, then vanishes completely, leaving her with only the dull weight of its keyboard.

_See you guys next time._

For the first time, Hana finds herself genuinely wishing that were true. Sure, she liked streaming- less for the joy of having fans and more because nothing compares to the thrill of a team-wipe- but Hana had never actively sought out contact with her viewers.

Streaming was just a job. Rarely anything more.

 _What if I don't ever come back?_ It's very possible. McCree had said so himself, and Hana is starting to trust his judgement, however grudgingly.

If she _does_ disappear, the Internet will be left with an unsolvable mystery- one of the most popular figures in gaming vanishing, leaving behind a legacy of cryptic messages, never to be heard from again. Courtesy of Overwatch. Or Talon, depending on whoever gets ahold of her corpse in the end.

 _Yikes, that's… a morbid thought_. Hana's fake smile twitches as she sets the holoboard down on the coffee table.

"I get it now," says Tara suddenly from beside her.

Hana turns to find that the older girl is staring at her face with an uncomfortable intensity. She's reminded of the night they first met, with Tara rudely awakening her in the middle of the night.

There's a new bandage on the girl's nose, and Hana absentmindedly wonders if it's from the taekwondo place Tara supposedly attends.

"What do you get?"

"Why I never suspected that you were DVA." Tara tucks her legs under her crossed arms as she frowns, more inquisitive than disgruntled. "You never _smile._ "

What a peculiar thing to say. Hana rubs at the rabbit charm with her thumb, which is still tucked away in her sleeve. She _does_ smile, and it's no different from the smile that DVA wears, except perhaps a bit more genuine. "How do you know that DVA smiles, and I don't? DVA doesn't use a webcam."

"I just watched you smile," Tara points out with a scowl. "I mean- I guess I watched _DVA_ smile _,_ more accurately, 'cos- ugh. It doesn't even feel right calling you two by the same name."

Hana is about to say that she and DVA are one and the same when- well, fuck. She refers to 'DVA' and 'Hana' as separate people, too.

"I smile," she says defensively. Tara immediately shakes her head.

"You don't smile, you _smirk._ Like you just fucked my boyfriend or something."

"Aw, thanks for your support!" chirps Hana sarcastically in a sing-songy pantomime of a DVA quote.

She gets a swung pillow to the head in response. It feels nice. Normal, even. Kind of like a pillow fight between two friends.

"I'm leaving tonight," Hana informs Tara, pawing at the pillow. Tara drops it.

"Why?" The question is painfully genuine, and while the older girl sounds gruff, Hana can detect the concern hidden throughout her words.

"I thought you said that some terrorist creeps were after you. You should just hide out here or something until the fuckers are gone."

"I can't." Hana picks up the pillow and hugs it to her chest with a sigh. "I need to get to Seoul, y'know? That's the entire point of me leaving home. Now that I have McCree with me, we can clear out all the Talon agents there and get on the subway."

Tara visibly stills. "By clearing out, do you mean-"

"Killing them." Hana smiles at Tara, and for some reason she feels bitter. "Do you still want me inside your house?"

She doesn't know _why_ she said it- it's completely unnecessary and turns the mood into one made of ice, cold and fragile. Tara blinks at her, mouth half-open, unsure of what to say. The regret that Hana immediately feels seeping into her bones makes her cringe.

"Don't look at me like that, _unnie,"_ she laughs as she pushes Tara lightly. "I'm just kidding."

… _As if I could ever kill someone._

* * *

_Ding._

_Ding._

_Ding._

The screen is too bright, and the room is too dark. She blinks blearily at the fuzzy square of white. A little pulsing red dot blinks on the screen.

Ah. How unfortunate.

She tilts her head back again into the soft cushion of her chair, closes her eyes as she speaks into the shadows. " _La chica_ logged into her account."

The shadows speaks back.

"Where?" The voice is dark as an oil slick, with the texture of glass being slowly crushed. She's still not entirely used to its grating quality.

"Somewhere, mi amigo _._ I'm too _perezosa_ to get up and see… go look for yourself."

The darkness curls out of the corner of her eye, shifting into a vaguely human form. It pauses in front of the screen, as if in contemplation.

"The apartment." His voice turns into a surly growl. "I was right."

"Never said you weren't, _amigo,_ " she chides. She swivels on her chair, slowly, lazy, to face the hologram. "But now we know exactly what room they're in, eh? Room 24. Sixth floor. Two people live there- an omnic and a girl, both civilians."

His reply is swift and dispassionate. "Tell the cell to kill them both."

She pouts, and draws her knees up to her chest in the chair. "Aw, but _Gabe,_ they're innocents. No Overwatch affiliation."

" _Get on with it._ "

"Okay, okay, whatever you say." She taps her earpiece, her tone more disinterested than appropriately distraught. "Theta, Sigma. I'm sending you coordinates. Kill everyone there but the girl." She turns towards the shadows. "Eeeeeven little Jessito?"

"The damn ingrate?" His voice shifts into something more menacing, as if asking _what are you insinuating?_ "What do you think-"

Sheesh, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. "Yes, everyone there," she continues cheerily into the earpiece. " _Gracias~!"_

The line goes _blip_ as she plucks the thing from her ear, places it on the table. The troops will mobilize immediately, if not out of fear of her, out of fear of _him._

"Don't you feel sorry for Jessito?" she asks, swiveling in the darkness's direction with a kick at a table leg.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. The Reaper does his job without much emotion. There are souls to reap, and whether they're his former student's souls or not matters very little.

At least… that's what he claims.

She knows better.

But oh, it's not like she has time to be concerned with such matters. A self-satisfied grin curls up on her face as with a wave of a hand, a dozen holoscreens bounce from her fingertips. Multiple shots of Hana Song in varying degrees of quality, mostly ripped from security cameras, hang in the dust-filled air.

"There's the target. Pretty little thing, isn't she?" she drawls to the darkness.

The Hanas all seem to glare at her from their respective positions. She leans in to stare at a particularly cute little photo of a cyborg handing the beaming girl a piece of goldfish bread.

 _Ooohhh, yes... the cyborg._ And Sombra chuckles because it's funny, too funny, to imagine what the girl's reaction will be.

" _Qué chica tan desafortunada."_

* * *

_Translation notes:_

_La chica- '_ The girl'. Chica is a more casual word for 'girl', as opposed to 'muchacha.'

 _Mi amigo- '_ My friend', masculine form.

 _Qué chica tan desafortunada- '_ What an unfortunate girl.'

 _Perezosa- '_ Lazy', feminine form.

 _Jessito-_ Adding -ito to a noun makes it diminutive in Spanish. For example, adding -ito to the word 'gato' (which means 'cat') would make it 'gatito', or 'kitten'. Same with perro (dog) into perrito (puppy) and so on. So by adding -ito to a person's name, it sounds somewhat affectionate ('Jesse' into 'little Jesse'). Of course, in this case, calling Jesse 'Jessito' is more sarcastic than anything.

 _Chili con carne:_ A spicy stew containing chili peppers, meat, tomatoes, and other various vegetables. The literal Spanish translation would be 'chili with meat' ('con' is 'with' and 'carne' is 'meat'.)

 _Daebak-_ Korean slang that is roughly equivalent to 'awesome', or 'cool.' It's a little newer in terms of Korean words, so it's frequently associated with the vocabulary of a teenager. Can be attached to the ends of sentences as a stand-alone _(Damn, is he a model or something? Daebak.)_

 _Unnie-_ Similar to 'oppa,' it means 'older sister'. This is what a female would call an older female; males would call an older female 'nuna'.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Surprise, surprise! I didn't tag all those Talon agents for nothing.
> 
> Here are the in-game voice lines used in this chapter:
> 
> DVA: Thanks for your support! (played when DVA is given five upvotes to her card post-game)
> 
> McCree: Justice ain't gonna dispense itself. (played when McCree spawns into the map for the first time)
> 
> Reaper: Calling Jesse the 'damn ingrate' is a reference to Reaper's voice line, 'This is where I picked up the damn ingrate.' (played when Reaper spawns onto the map Route 66, which was frequented by Deadlock back in the day.)
> 
> Those were all from memory, so feel free to correct me on any of these if I was wrong.
> 
> A surprising amount of people have tried correcting me when I called Genji 'Mr. Suzumo' and McCree 'Matthew Mercer'! Just to clarify, they were using fake names on purpose.
> 
> I do have basic knowledge of the game (like I know hero's real names and all) because I actually do play the game- I'm a salty Diamond rank dps main stuck in elo hell :')
> 
> I appreciate everyone who tries to help, of course, but just keep in mind that if I make a mistake that seems very basic, it was probably intentional ^^


	20. worst in us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Graphic violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I mention something about Hana's beliefs regarding religion in this chapter. It's short but it's there. Generally speaking, don't let anything I write in this story influence your faith in a religion or lack thereof; these are the fictional views of fictional characters :)
> 
> Also, you may be wondering WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU, TEX? I'll explain later. First, here's a chapter twice as long as usual in compensation.

 

* * *

"GG," yawns Hana, falling backwards onto the pillows in Tara's room. Tara snorts and swings a lazy hand at Hana, and somehow the half-assed hi-five manages to connect with a solid _clap!_

"You should go pro, dude," the older girl insists. She sits up straight to glower at the screen that details Hana's score, more like it's her enemy than an inspiring thing to aspire to. "Imagine all the cash you could win! You'd be positively rolling in-"

"No," Hana says firmly. She stares up at the whitewashed ceiling from her back, at the little cobwebs crisscrossing the leftmost corner of the room. "First of all, I'm not even old enough to- I turn sixteen sometime this or next year. Second, I'm gonna join Overwatch. My mind is set; there's no other-"

"You're not old enough to play friggin' StarCraft but you're old enough to go around swinging a gun?" Tara twists to fix Hana with that piercing stare, as intimidating as usual but somehow softened with something resembling concern. "Look, I don't know _anything_ about your situation, but like _boi._ Even I can see that logic doesn't work. On like, any level."

Hana pushes herself into a sitting position. She knows. She's heard all of this from DVA already.

"It's not a matter of _am I old enough,_ it's a matter of _how old do I have to be to be accepted?_ " Hana grins at Tara. "It's a matter of _are you going to treat me like a goddamn child_?"

"You _are_ a goddamn-"

"Nobody has the right to say that," Hana continues lightly. "Not anymore."

Tara gives Hana a long look. Then she shuts the holoboard with a huff.

"You're like the main character of a bad fanfic," the girl mutters. Her short, dark hair shutters over her face with every tilt of the head. "There's nothing I can really say to you, can I? I can't blame you for anything. I'm the fucking bad guy."

_No, you're wrong. I've done so many things wrong._

"If I'd been kinder to my mother after she became an alcoholic," Hana offers, "I'd never be in this situation. I'd have gotten rich off of competition cash- like you'd said- and I'll be a famous idol with nothing to worry about."

It feels so damn good to just let it all out.

"One of my friends got shot because I was a little bitch during a fight, and another one of my friends is risking his neck to transport me to Seoul 'cos I can't do it on my own." There's a little DVA sticker plastered onto Tara's holoboard, grinning up at her like a cruel joke. "I'm good at playing games but because I'm on the run I can't even do _that._ And now I'm hiding out here instead of-"

Tara lets out a bark of laughter. Hana blinks, unaccustomed to being interrupted during one of her tirades.

She grins a crooked smile. "Fuck off, Hana Song. You're doing great."

And Hana thinks that's probably the best consolation she can get.

* * *

She wonders if she and McCree think more alike than either of them would like to admit. The decision to leave behind Amin and Tara was formed separately by each but seemed so completely _obvious_ to both. Neither kindly Omnic nor teenage human had a place in the world of resurrected organizations and terrorism.

 _Neither do I, really,_ Hana can't help but think. Oh, well. As soon as they got to Seoul, the sooner life would become safer.

Midafternoon brings a tentative group lunch and final farewell. Tara seems more disappointed that Hana is leaving than concerned for her well-being, though Hana can't really blame her- everything she'd said about being chased by Talon must feel so disconnected from Tara's reality, which seems to consist mainly of overcooked lunches, StarCraft, and taekwondo practice.

Amin, on the other hand, is unusually quiet as she watches them eat their spicy tofu stew. She gathers the empty bowls and puts them into the dishwasher with a strange solemnity at the end of the meal.

Hana is shuffling through Tara's old shoes, trying to find a pair that fits better than her boots, when she is approached by Amin. An electronic throat-clearing alerts her to the Omnic's presence.

"I bought you a jacket."

Hana blinks at Amin as the Omnic holds up a muted pink raincoat.

"That's… for me?" She looks down at the jacket she's wearing- being Tara's, it is far too big, with the sleeves extending past her fingertips- and then looks back up at the kindly robot.

The first question that jumps to the forefront of Hana's mind is _why do people think I like pink so much?,_ though the first thing she ends up saying is "Aww, Amin."

"Do you like it?" The Omnic's voice sounds pleased, as if a smile would be on her faceplate if she could physically express such emotions. "I don't think Tara minds you borrowing her jacket, but it's much too big for you to be convenient."

Hana slips the jacket on. To her surprise, the shiny jacket fits like a glove. A smile creeps onto her face. "Yeah. It's awesome, Amin. Thanks."

Amin hums contentedly while Hana runs her hand down the smooth fabric, a heady sense of wonder filling her head.

_This is a gift._

Hana used to receive so many gifts, back when her mother and father were still together. Little things like shoes, clothes, breakfasts, lunches and dinners. There was a little souvenir shop by Father's work place that sold these little furry keychains, and he'd buy her one every month, as she was intent on collecting all forty-six.

Then Father had turned tail and run, and the absence of those gifts left a gaping hole in Hana's life for the majority of fourteen years.

It feels strange, really, that people are starting to give her things again. Genji with his rabbit charm bracelet, which is wrapped tight against the pulse of Hana's wrist. Amin with her jacket.

McCree with his gun-filched-from-a-Talon-corpse, though she thinks that had been more out of necessity and less out of friendly spirit.

Surrounded by the dusty quietness of the closet, with the buckles of McCree's boots clinking in the distance, the sense of appreciation is suddenly amplified when she realizes that these are gifts she can never return.

"I can't repay you," Hana says dully _._ She turns to look at McCree, who's pulling on his boots by the door, gun glinting at his hip. "I'm probably not even going to come back here, you know?"

There's an awkward silence, filled only with the slight whirring of Amin's metallic carapace.

Amin lets out a quiet sigh. She smooths out the wrinkles of the jacket on Hana's shoulder with a metallic hand.

"Gifts," The Omnic says quietly, "are not meant to be repaid."

She lets go of Hana's shoulder. Hana lets go of a breath she'd never known she was holding.

The Omnic takes a step back, her lights seeming to glow brighter than ever in the darkness of the walk-in closet. "I," she says with a light little laugh, "wanted you to stay. I tried convincing McCree of that, but-"

"I can't."

No hesitation. Amin's lights dim ever so slightly.

"But why?"

If Amin has already talked to McCree about this, then she should know why. The _why_ being, Amin and Tara are civilians, and Hana's very presence goes against the very grain of their normal lives.

So instead of reiterating that point, Hana sighs and looks up at Amin.

"Someone promised me," she says after a moment of hesitation, "that I would make it. Not to Seoul- not to Overwatch- just, that I'd _make_ it. And I believe in them as much as they believe in me."

She waves at the closet, the dusty shirts hanging from crooked clotheshangers. At the little apartment. At Tara and Amin. At the entire peaceful district of Busan, bustling with thousands of people going on their day-to-day-lives.

"If I- If I want to make it, I can't play it safe." Hana looks straight into Amin's glowing blue light. "I can't have all _this._ Life is all about compromises. My compromise is this; and because of it, I need to _go._ "

Amin stays remarkably still, even for an Omnic, as if contesting everything Hana had just stood up for. Hana stays still as well, challenging the challenge. Shoulders squared, back straight. Refusing to break eye contact. Because this is something she _truly_ believes.

Hana would be lying if she says the thought of staying hasn't crossed her mind at least once. She could give up on this entire endeavor. Give up on Tracer, on Overwatch, on Genji.

The world is dangerous. Amin and Tara are so nice to her. Nobody would blame her for wanting to stay.

Nobody but herself.

Because the truth is? Something feels inherently wrong about staying. Hana- not DVA, just _Hana-_ she's truly starting to face her problems now, isn't she? She can't just run anymore. She can't stop now. _I can't stop now._

As if Amin too finally understands that, she deflates.

"I understand," she says quietly, her voice a low thrill of synthetic vocal cords. "Even though I don't think it's right. I will miss you."

"I WILL TOO, YOU BASTARD!" comes the bellowing cry from the other room, and Hana nearly snorts with sudden laughter. Apparently Tara has been eavesdropping on what had otherwise been a heartfelt conversation up to that point.

All tension drains from the closet.. Hana smiles up at Amin, who tilts her head back with a low, amused sound. Together they leave the closet to face the door, where McCree is standing (and casually smoking).

Tara stands there as well, sporting her trademark scowl as though she is angry. Unlike when they first met, now Hana knows better.

Tara is not angry. She is probably as sad as Hana.

"Here." The girl thrusts a flat, black device at Hana- she recognizes it as a phone.

"What's this for?" Hana takes it from Tara and examines it. The phone is a bit primitive, as it seems to require a solid screen, but it's in working condition nonetheless.

Tara's scowl deepens, and she swipes her short locks of black hair away from her (still bandaged) face. "So that you can call me when you settle down somewhere, you goof. My number's saved on to it." She claps a hand on Hana's shoulder, causing her knees to buckle from the sheer force of Tara's arm. "If you don't call me, I'll hunt you down. _Arasuh?_ "

Her overly hostile words simply warm Hana's heart. She's about to express her gratitude when another thought jumps to the forefront of her mind, and she spits it out without thinking: "Why do you care?"

Tara blinks at her. McCree half-turns from behind Hana, lets out a long whistle that may signal either _that's actually a good question_ or _oooh, roasted!_

 _It's a genuine question. What did you do to deserve this kindness? Endanger their lives?_ whispers DVA in Hana's ear, that ever-present sarcasm rich in her voice.

Besides, Tara had been against Hana staying at the apartment from the very beginning, right? It just wasn't logical-

"Firstly, you're my StarCraft idol- DVA- meaning that there's now way I _can't_ like you. Secondly… I mean, you're my friend." Tara frowns and puts her hands on her hips, as if she is reconsidering. "What other reason do I need?"

Hana freezes. She's aware of Amin and McCree watching her and Tara very closely.

… _My friend._

The last time she'd had a friend, he'd gotten shot. Hana trembles with the sudden mixture of elation and terror, at all of the _if's_ and _when's_ that define their 'friendship', bonds so close to snapping but so dear to her at the same time- she acts on impulse, swamping Tara in a big hug.

Tara's arms hover awkwardly in the air over Hana for a few uncertain moments before she slowly returns the hug. Hana can't see her expression from where she is buried into the front of Tara's sweatshirt, but she likes to imagine that Tara is smiling.

 _Oof._ And there's Amin's hug added on with a content sigh. The carbon fiber arms wrapping around the two girls are surprisingly warm.

Hana pulls away. Cracks a grin. Fights back the urge to laugh.

Somehow manages not to cry.

"See you guys around."

Tara lets out a huff of breath as she backs off, obviously flustered. Hana waves at them fake smile plastered to her face like a wet piece of paper, while McCree solemnly tips his hat at the pair, ever the typical cowboy.

His drawl is smooth and belies no nervousness. "Good day to you, ma'am. And you too, lil' miss," (directed at Tara, who snorts.)

He's the first one to step out, without a backwards glance.

And that's where they differ, she supposes. Hana can't let go of them as easily.

She takes a step out the door and looks over her shoulder. Tara's torso inclines in a short little bow, while Amin merely nods at her. Hana smiles and waves back, blows a pretend-kiss at Tara, who smirks and pretend-kisses back.

Her first-ever friends, one being more like a mother to her than her actual mother. She's never- she's never _had_ friends before, she doesn't know _how_ to have friends. But these people had been so patient to her, as patient as Genji or perhaps even more so.

Now she's leaving them behind.

Some deeply buried part of Hana hopes, prays for the first time in thirteen years to whatever uncaring God that may or may not exist up there, that Tara and Amin Lee stay safe. If He who had been so horrible to her throughout her life so far had any conscience whatsoever, he would shield them. They deserve that much.

_They deserve it so much more than I do._

* * *

The streets are bustling with people once again, but something feels more subdued about the air. McCree is whistling a vaguely country-sounding tune, to the amused looks of Hana's fellow Koreans. He points Hana in the direction of Jungsoo Station.

"See here," he says importantly. "There's gonna be Talon there, sure, but there'll be civvies there too. The station is still in working condition-"

"The hell are 'civvies'?" interrupts Hana. Probably some kind of military jargon. McCree waves his hand, eyebrow twitching like he's annoyed.

"Civvies? Y'know, civilians. Like yer Tara and Amin." He twirls his hat on his head, a fancy little trick that must've taken ages to perfect. "Anyways, civvies can still use the station without even noticing Talon, but Talon's filtering through the system looking for _you._ "

"And you," points out Hana. He considers this with a rubbed chin.

"Yeah," he says after a moment. "If they find me, they're gonna try killing me, too. Have you tried visiting any other station that has a Seoul route besides Jungsoo?"

To be completely honest, that hadn't even crossed Hana's mind. She thrusts her hands into her jacket pockets, feeling a bit stupid.

"No. Tracer-nim kept saying to use Jungsoo Station. Because it's the only one under Overwatch protection-"

"Yeah, yeah, Lena was always a bit of a stickler for that kind of thing. 'Overwatch protection', my ass." The sarcasm in his voice is positively frigid. McCree sets off down the street, and Hana has to jog to keep up with his long strides. "Well, the point is, there ain't a single station in Busan right now that's under her precious 'Overwatch protection'. Talon's on all of 'em; I checked. So might as well visit Jungsoo instead of another station. It's the closest one."

Hana switches from jogging to speedwalking. "You… worked with Tracer-nim before," she wonders aloud.

It's a strange realization, mostly because McCree seems much older than the British agent- _no_ , that's not true, Hana remembers, they're about the same age… it's just that the chronal accelerator helps stick Tracer's appearance permanently in her twenties. Maybe that's what makes her such a timeless classic of a hero.

But even without taking account their looks, the difference between the two former agents is stark. McCree _feels_ older. He talks like a cynic, he talks like he puts all his old memories on a shelf and periodically examines them closely, looking for what he did wrong- and boy oh boy, he has a _lot_ of filled shelves. On the other hand, Tracer is filled with a vigor for life that exceeds even Hana's, who is decades younger.

"She was a chipper fella." McCree turns a right, nearly colliding with a lady in a white tracksuit walking an equally white dog. He grins it off, sending the confused-looking lady on her way. "Still is. Unlike Genji, she hasn't changed much."

 _Oh, that's right. McCree worked with Genji too._ That's an even stranger thought- the cowboy and the cyborg ninja dude walking side by side. If McCree acts like he's older than Tracer, then Genji is the hundred-year-old cyborg ninja monk that outages them both, in both wisdom and speech. She looks up at the cowboy, who's scanning the street before him as he walks.

"What was Genji like when you were working with him?" _If he really did change at all…_

McCree pauses and looks down at Hana, hat tilted quizzically on his head. It was a simple question, so why does he look so… uncertain?

After a long moment, McCree turns away and starts up with his walking again.

"Bitter. Angry," he says gruffly. "Didn't even speak English when he first joined up, so everyone on base thought he was mute or some shit like that. Had a difficult life, the poor guy."

Hana tries to picture an angry Genji. She almost fails, save for that one memory of Genji facing off against Mr. Seon, deadly quiet and armor gleaming in the low light.

The way McCree describes him, Genji seems more like a prisoner of Overwatch than an agent of it. That bothers her on a personal level.

"He said," starts Hana carefully, uncomfortably aware that she is treading in unfamiliar territory, "that he had his body augmented because he had to, not because he wanted to. Does that mean… he got hurt so badly, that… that level of cyberization…?"

She trails off, uncertain. McCree lets out a sigh as he takes a sharp right down an alley.

"Did Genji tell you any of this?"

Hana blinks up at McCree. The bearded man is looking directly ahead, as if refusing to make eye contact with her. From what she knew of him, he only ever made unwavering eye contact with someone he was speaking with.

Was this really that touchy of a subject? Genji had said very little about his past, but then again, neither had she. Only natural, really, as their histories weren't especially relevant to the mission.

Of course, that doesn't mean Hana isn't curious about it at all, especially now that McCree has brought it up. In fact, it's starting to _really_ bother her.

She frowns as she walks. She… really knows nothing about the man, apart from his being Japanese. Genji hadn't even given her a last name to hold onto, for whatever reason.

But it's difficult to imagine that Genji would withhold such information just because he doesn't trust Hana with it. _No, that can't be it,_ she thinks firmly.

"He didn't say anything because I never asked." Hana rubs at the rabbit charm with her thumb. She remembers their conversation in the rice storage shack, as if from a distant dream. "He told me he had an older brother once, though."

 _That_ gives McCree pause. "He did _what?_ "

The fact that McCree sounds so shocked is frankly insulting. They were _close._ Hana and Genji _knew_ each other. Her brow furrows as she repeats, "He told me he has an older brother. I think… I think his older brother is dead now, though _._ " A pang of sadness shoots through her heart. "I dunno, he seemed kind of… torn up about it? So I didn't want to pry."

"Thank fucking goodness you didn't. Well, damn." McCree turns on his heel to stare at Hana, who hastily steps back. What- why does he sound so incredulous?

"What?" she snaps, suddenly feeling defensive. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No. It's-… eh, Genji tends to keep things to himself," mutters McCree. His dark gaze is piercing.. "It's just- odd."

The hell is that supposed to mean?

"Why? What happened with his brother?" McCree starts off walking again, and Hana hurries to catch up. "What did he do before he joined Overwatch?"

McCree's growl is low. "Those are _his_ secrets to spill, missy, not mine. He doesn't mind who he was in the past, not at all, but he don't like me talking about the others in that past. _Especially_ that brother of his."

"Holy fucking hell." Hana grabs at McCree's serape to slow him down, seizing fistfuls of the red fabric, with all the fervor of someone being left on a cliffhanger. "You can't just leave it at _that!_ "

Unfortunately for Hana, McCree weighs almost three hundred pounds to her one hundred and ten, and her efforts are tantamount to a rabbit trying to bring down a coyote. He simply walks on, ignoring her questions, dragging her behind him by his serape.

McCree doesn't understand, Hana realizes. McCree doesn't understand that Genji _trusts_ her. Her ninja wouldn't mind it if Hana knew things about him, right?

"Wait, McCree-"

"Sorry, little missy." He continues on, his manner suddenly brisk and professional. "That's not of any concern right now. What we gotta talk about is the formation them Talon agents will be in."

"I don't-"

"Because it's a public station and because they don't know where you and I are at any given time, most of the agents will probably be grouped up t'gether on one side of the station. If they spread out, easy pickings for me, see. An' if they're being obvious about their watchin' the station, then the civvies will notice and cops will be called. So once we get past the ticket-buying, we have twenty seconds tops to git on the tra- er, subway."

"Stop FUCKING interrupting me!" Seriously, what was-

" _Hana Song._ " McCree whirls on his heel, sending Hana scrambling back with the sudden eye contact. His dark eyes are piercing, and her heart jumps with the stare. " _Right now, we gotta focus on getting the hell outta here._ We have a good chance of survivin'- Korea's too well-protected for 'em to just swamp us with sheer numbers- but still, a sect can outnumber us ten to one at any given moment. Keep your head up, eyes alert, and _focus._ We're not dyin' here, not today."

The protest dies on Hana's lips, and she's struggling to find something to say when the cowboy holds up a silent hand as he suddenly flattens himself against the wall. Hana mirrors his actions hastily, heart jumping to her throat because _holy shit, is Talon just around the corner?_

His tone is still brisk. "We're here. You have yer gun?"

The ari's sudden change from easygoing to sharp as a knife is unsettling.

Hana feels for the cold metal handle of the Talon revolver, tucked in a belt loop underneath the folds of her new jacket. Her hands are shaking ever so slightly. "Uh… yeah, I have it."

"So you're ready, then."

 _Not in a million years._ "I didn't say that," she mutters.

"Then say it."

Hana tucks the fabric of her shirt around the gun, making sure it's thoroughly concealed. "It."

McCree doesn't groan in an exasperated fashion like she half-expects him to. Instead, he throws back his head and laughs.

"Yeah, you and Genji would get along just fine."

He sets off toward the station, leaving Hana feeling very confused and oddly pleasant.

* * *

The entrance to the subway is marked by arching gates and signs. It looks like a hole into the ground, with the steps descending directly to the subway trains. Hana and McCree follows a quiet stream of people into its depths with no problems.

Hana has ridden the subway exactly once before, when she was visiting her aunt in Seoul as a five-year-old girl. Things are mostly like she remembers- the huge, underground tunnel is sleek, tiled with white panels, and lined with bright lights. Guard Omnics stand in front of the subway doors, informing in calm Korean, then English, to "please step back from the opening doors." The impossibly long trains they guard are constantly affected by the ebb and flow of people- being filled, then emptied, filled, then emptied.

Hana watches the process in fascination as she and McCree step up to a scanning booth.

"Hello," intones the Omnic fixed in place at the booth from behind the glass. A blank smile has been printed onto its boxy face. "Where is your intended destination?"

"Seoul," drawls McCree. He plucks a wallet from his back pocket with deft fingers. "We're both goin' together."

"I see." The Omnic turns slowly, mechanically, towards the holoboard embedded into the side of the booth. "Please give me your credit card. Your credit card. Your credit card."

Hana blinks, attention turning towards the Omnic. It suddenly swivels back towards them in its seat, that printed smile still gleaming fakely as ever.

"Your cred- credit- c-c-c-c-c-"

Suddenly, McCree draws his gun in a blur of motion. An ear-splitting _BANG,_ and Hana reels back as the Omnic's head jerks from the recoil of the shot.

Its torso spasms as wires fizzle and pop. There's a little hole drilled straight through the metallic sheen of its forehead.

Hana's mind freezes.

_Oh my fucking god. McCree you f-_

The screaming begins again, as screaming generally seems to be the first thing humans do when presented with sudden gunshot noises. Passengers stream off the train in hordes, a blur of rain jackets and bobbing black umbrellas, while McCree calmly pops a cigarillo in his mouth.

Hana's senses finally return. Because McCree had just shot a fucking subway Omnic, Talon- Talon must know-

"McCree, we need to go!" she practically shrieks. "They know we're here!" She reaches for her own gun, draws it with shaking fingers.

He tilts his head at her, eyebrow raising in an amused, absolutely _irritating_ sort of way.

"Whatcha talkin' about? They already know we're here."

He gestures towards the Omnic he just trashed as it sputters weakly, sending sparks flying. "It recognized us, denied access, stalled 'til Talon got here- and there we go!"

He points with two fingers down the hallway, at the swarm of black suits coming down the hall. Hana nearly drops her gun.

There are a lot of them this time- so much more than she'd ever seen before. Even from far away, she can see that they have guns, but they're not shooting, confirming Hana's theory that they want her alive. She's- she's frightened, because there's nowhere to run, meaning that there's no way out-

McCree? Not so much.

He vaults over the closed gate, sprinting with those long legs toward the subway. There are still passengers sitting there, paralyzed by the sudden commotion. Hana exhales a shaky breath as she realizes that this crazy American is still intending to board the train.

She ducks under the gate, hurtles towards the door. The subways have been completely automated since the turn of the century, meaning that Talon _probably_ doesn't have the means to stop one of the trains in its tracks.

_At least, that's what I'm fucking hoping!_

McCree hits the glass window of the subway with a muted _bam!_ Passengers shriek and reel away from the door, while McCree's face twists in confusion. He turns to the rapidly breathing Hana. "It's sealed shut!"

" _WHAT?"_ Hana grabs at the doors, trying to pry them open, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the slippery metal.

The cowboy pulls back his fist again- this time the solid metal one- and smashes it into, _through_ the little window, sending glass flying. Hana reflexively shields her face as she stares, because the window is too small for anyone to climb through-

"HELLO!" bellows McCree, waving frantically at the passengers within, eliciting a startled shriek. "Could somebody, y'know- open the door-"

The train begins to move, sliding slowly forwards. Adrenaline bursts in Hana's veins, she presses her hands against the door and yells, in Korean, "Please, they're going to kill us!"

Talon swarms the station; she can see them out of the corner of her eye, like a monster in a horror movie that the camera never clearly focuses on. McCree curses and pulls out his gun.

" _Please,_ " begs Hana, hands against the glass, and her voice breaks in the most heartwrenching way even without any effort put towards faking sincerity. They're so close, so _fucking_ close, they can't just be stopped _now._

The message gets across to the frightened civvies- Hana and McCree may be dangerous people with guns, but they were still _human._ And in dire trouble, to boot.

One of the women inside jump to their feet. Begins pulling on the door, which obviously won't open-

Another man stands, tries to help out the lady. Hana can hear them through the broken window, shouting something about the door malfunctioning.

 _Not malfunctioning._ The realization hits Hana with all the force of a nail into a coffin- _Talon doesn't need to stop the train if they can just stop us from boarding in the first place._

The subways speeds up. Hana wants to cry as it slips from her fingers, and she has to step back as it becomes a sudden blitz of glass and steel. The lady and the man yell something- an apology- that is quickly caught up in the wind of the speeding train. Too fast to board. Too fast to catch.

In the space of three seconds, Hana's chance at getting to Seoul is miles away in the dark subway tunnels.

_Haaa…. Fuck._

She rubs at the rabbit charm as she turns, facing McCree. They're surrounded at all sides by Talon. Hana can count at least twenty black-suited agents around them in a loose half-circle, pinning Hana and McCree against the tracks.

Maybe it's just that they're quiet, or maybe Hana's gone deaf, because all she can hear is the _thump, thump, thump_ ing of her heart.

This seems, in all ways, like a last stand. McCree is fast but not fast enough; nobody is. His chances are slim even if Talon wants to capture them both alive, which apparently they don't- Hana is the only one they need, meaning McCree is bullet fodder either way. The only thing keeping him breathing as of the moment was Hana's proximity to him- if they opened fire now, there was a very big chance that Hana would go down as well. A chance that, apparently, they couldn't risk.

She forces her hands to still. The cowboy stands right beside her, eyebrows furrowed, cigarillo still wisping lazy curls of smoke from its tip. Hana can't possibly know what he's thinking, but if she had to guess, it would be something along the lines of _fuck. You sure got me into a damn mess, kid._

But Hana can't- she _won't_ let him die, even if she doesn't trust or even know him. She simply can't live with the fact that she caused an ally's death. Either both of them leave this subway alive, or neither of them.

Hana's hand twitches towards Tara's phone. She has one last call to make.

_Amin. I'm sorry._

Jesse McCree's arm is so fast that it nearly knocks the breath out of her, wrapping around her and pinning her to his body. Before the words _what the actual fuck, you goddamn American_ can get out of her mouth, something cold buries itself into the side of her head.

Sadly, it's a very familiar feeling. Han doesn't need to turn her head to figure out that McCree's beloved little gun is ready to send a bullet through her skull.

"M-McCree?" Her voice comes out like an unintentional squeak. Twenty guns click into fire-ready positions, echoing loudly in the open space.

"You know the drill." McCree is- he sounds _lighthearted,_ casual, as if he isn't about to get shot dozens of times. "Let me go or the girl dies."

"You wouldn't." The voice that comes from a centermost agent is distorted by that sound modulating thing that seems to be built into every Talon mask. "We all know-"

"-basically nothin' about me, if you'd pardon my interruption. Except that if it's between me and some girly I don't even know walkin' out of here alive, I'll pick me every single time." Hana dares a glance upwards, and yes- the smile she hears in his voice is actually _there,_ on his face.

He continues. "I know you been after this lil' girl for a while now. And you must want her real bad if you're riskin' operation in one of the most populated area of Korea, hn? And yer boss wouldn't be that happy if she went bye-bye."

The arm around Hana's neck is positively constricting. She knows it's acting- at least, she's hoping it is- but being put in such close quarters with someone positively _radiating_ malicious intent is making her want to jump into the ocean, scour the feeling off of her crawling skin with scratching fingernails.

She shivers.

Talon is motionless. Hana stares into the void of one of their masks. She wonders, not for the first time, if they are all secretly clones of one another like the Storm Troopers from Star Wars, and not men and women that once had families and friends.

McCree purses his lips. "So. Git outta my way."

It's gotten to the point where even Hana can't tell if McCree is acting or not. The Talon agents obviously feel the same way, as she can almost see them squirming in their combat boots. Her hands are cold, so cold, but the rabbit charm is so warm in her hand-

The cowboy takes a step forward. With a rustle like crinkling aluminum foil, Talon rearranges itself as it takes a step back, agents warily training their guns all over McCree's body.

He grins, flexes his gun hand like a butterfly. Hana can tell that all eyes just focused themselves on his gun, still aimed at Hana's head.

"Yeah, you may not be scared of me," he drawls. "But yer scared of the Reaper, aren'tcha. I've heard the stories. I've seen the corpses."

One of the Talon agents speak up again, a different once this time, though with the same mechanical voice. " _If you take another step forward, we will shoot-_ "

"Oh, you wouldn't dare." The steel pressed against Hana's head lightens in pressure, ever so slightly, and all Hana can think is _I swear if you're thinking of doing something stupid-_

" _It's high noon._ "

In retrospect, McCree says it very quietly. But in the resounding silence of the room, the words sound like he'd bellowed them.

But the loudness of the words are _nothing_ compared to the crash of six shots, hammering off one right after the other, bringing down six agents all at once like dolls clattering to the ground. Hana hurls herself against the ground as Talon gunfire joins the echoing _boom_ that results; the wind is knocked out of her lungs but she scrambles onto her hands and knees anyway- McCree yells over the chaos, " _HANA STAY DOWN, THEY WON'T SHOOT YOU, STAY DOWN!"_

Bullet sprinkle around her in a circle- even she can tell that the agents are giving her a wide berth in gunfire- while McCree rolls, yes, _rolls,_ past her behind a telephone booth, which offers him some meager shelter from the bullet hell. Every shot he cracks off fires true, straight through some agent's helmet. One Talon agent sprints towards Hana, who is left cowering alone in the middle of the floor. McCree shouts-

_It's okay, just breathe!_

Hana whips out her own gun without thinking, aiming and pulling the trigger in a split second. The agent halters mid-stride like he'd hit an invisible wall, before falling like a human domino to the ground. A burning feeling races through her arms, through her veins, but it's not the feeling of poison like from the sniper. It's the feeling of _power._

It feels amazing. It feels amazing. It feels- she has control over-

" _MOVE!"_

Hana jerks into action right when the tranquilizer dart spirals through the air where her arm had been just moments earlier. The sniper from earlier was back, apparently, but like hell Hana was going to let them hit her.

She zig-zags and leaps directly behind the booth, nearly colliding with McCree from the momentum. He reeks of his signature smoke smell, but from this close she can also smell something else- the fragrance of herbs.

"Let's wait them out," Hana says immediately. Bullets still spray around them, obviously trying to keep both of them from moving, cracking concrete with large sparks. "If they don't want to hit me, they can't do much, right?"

 _RATATATATAT-_ even with all this new pulse tech, everything sounds so _loud-_

"Nah." McCree suddenly whips his gun around the corner, fast as a viper; there's a resounding _bang_ and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Twelve more to go. "I betcha the bastards have already called in reinforcements. If we sit here, we're dead- me 'specially. We hafta strike first."

Was that so difficult? McCree had that one incredible move, the one that wasn't even _possible,_ sending six shots out all at they have that on their side, then the rest of this fight should be a piece of cake! She has to yell over gunfire to get her message across, hope inflating in her chest like a fragile balloon- "You can do that fancy thing again! Like, shoot a bunch of them at once-"

Unlike Hana, who has to pipe to be heard, his drawl is low and cuts through the noise without effort. "I can't. I… it puts a real strain on my eye."

 _What?_ She glances at him. And could it be her imagination, or are the circles under his eyes darker? The droop in his shoulders certainly wasn't there before.

McCree drops the still-smoking cigarillo from his mouth, lets it twirl onto the shiny white floor.

For some reason, the cowboy looking so tired strikes a vein of fear in Hana's heart. "Uh, dude, are you okay?"

He huffs through his nose, shifts his seat. "Never been better."

The peppering of gunfire slows as McCree and Hana give no indication of letting up. The cowboy sighs, pats down the hat low over his head. "On the count of three, roll out, and we're shooting down as many as we can. Don't get too close because incapacitatin' you from there would be the easiest thing in the world for any of 'em. Meet by the next ticket booth." He motions with his neck at it. "I'm gonna go after the sniper."

"The sniper?" Hana resists the urge to look for the elusive figure. "You found them? I haven't seen them even once this entire time." _And yet they've nearly hit me so many times,_ she wants to add.

"Yeah, I think I know where they're hiding out." McCree cricks his neck, tenses his body, his drawl low and casual. "Three- two- one-"

On _one_ McCree hurls himself from the shelter, his serape a crimson blur. Hana sprints in the opposite direction, gun out, aiming and firing as if she knows what in _hell_ she's doing.

 _Bang- bang- bang-_ She hits two, and she can't tell if they've been killed or just hurt, though they yell like they're dying either way. Another one- no rush; she can take her time because they're so afraid of killing her-

A body hits the ground with a sickening finality, seemingly having dropped out of nowhere. A long rifle tumbles from its lifeless hands, similar in make to Amari-nim's but not quite as polished in its shell, as if it is a prototype of some sort. McCree had taken care of the sniper, as promised.

Blood pools by the masked sniper's head. DVA's first reaction is not horror, like Hana's- it is a blood-curdling, self-satisfied thought of _good._

Instead of running for the next ticket booth, Hana ducks behind a gate pillar and begins firing from there. She's probably missing more shots than she's landing. There are no bright splashes of red blood, no neon-colored pixels spelling out her increasing kill count to indicate that she actually hit someone. Half the time she can't tell if she's hit someone or not, mostly because McCree is getting some of them before she can even pull the trigger.

One gunshot rings louder than the rest- a dull _ping,_ like its bullet has sunk into metal- and McCree jerks back behind the booth to where she can't see him. Alarm makes Hana's heart ring like a bell; she fires off at another agent and sprints to him.

There are no visible wounds, but then again, his serape is red- she runs a hand over his cloak, checking for the telltale wetness of blood. McCree pushes her off with a grunt; she scrambles back in a buzz of panic.

"'M fine, it just got my arm. Just got startled, that's all."

True to his word, there is now a gaping hole in the center of his metallic forearm, a mess of fizzling wires and pointy metal edges. It hangs useless at his side, swaying limply from his shoulder.

Well, it's not his shooting arm. Hana lets out a little sigh of relief that somehow exhales all the oxygen from her lungs. "Ugh, thank God. I thought you got hurt."

* * *

_It hurts like fucking hell._

The first thing about modern prosthetics, the thing that no one seems to understand, is that the best ones should be wired to have nerves. Pain is the driving force behind life- without a feel for it, McCree's arm could get blown to smithereens and he wouldn't even notice.

So he should be glad that Angela had taken so much time carefully replicating the human nervous system through electrostimulation in his shit prosthetic arm- he should be damn thankful-

McCree is _not_ thankful right now.

Fire burns in that hole in his arm, razing nonexistent flesh with its wrath. He huffs, places a tentative hand over the gaping injury- it doesn't feel like an actual wound, not at all. It buzzes and hums like his arm is constantly being electrocuted. His poor metal arm had never _been_ shot up this bad before.

But maybe it's the knowledge that the wound won't kill him- that there's no chance of McCree bleeding out, or getting an infection- that somehow lessens the pain's intensity. Makes his eyes water a little, but little else. He moves it experimentally, holding back sounds of pain when it zaps his shoulder joint.

"If you're fine, let's get out of here," says Hana with a broad grin. The front of Little Missy's fancy new jacket is covered in dust and shrapnel, as are her dark locks of hair. Her eyes are bright and earnest- a disturbing contrast to the carnage around her. "Listen. You don't hear any guns, right? We must've scared them off."

The girl is right, though they'd less 'scared them off' and more of 'outright killed three quarters of their team'. If McCree went back in time and told his three-weeks-ago self, lounging at a bar on Route 66, that he'd one day team up with a pink-jacket-wearing teenage girl to destroy an entire Talon sect, his three-weeks-ago self would laugh. Laugh and call his future self drunk. Tip back a whiskey and fall soundly asleep, drooling against the hard wood of the bar table.

_How things have fuckin' changed._

They make their way out of the subway, plans thoroughly thwarted, and yet Jesse feels a small bit of pleasure because he's somehow not dead. Hana has an odd, twitchy smile on her two-shades-paler face- adrenaline, or perhaps the sudden lack of it, is most likely stringing her along on a strange ride of emotions.

Jesse feels something that maybe Genji had once felt, when the robot man was looking after her.

She's still smiling. McCree can't stand it.

"Are you okay?"

Her chatter is bubbly and bright, and so empty. "'Course! I didn't even get hit _once._ I know they weren't aiming for me, but… it felt like I had an invisible shield around me or something. Like, _daebak._ " Hana grins faintly at McCree as she takes a tottering step onto the next stair. "I may not be as good at aiming as you, but because I always shoot first-"

"That's not what I meant." McCree turns to face Hana, who blinks at him in mild confusion. Something about this girl just _bothers_ him, or maybe it's just what the girl stands for that's starting to get to him- the fact that kids can wield guns and unlike in McCree's times, not get arrested for it by the law. Become _encouraged_ by the law to keep going, to push the violence further.

Is this really what Overwatch stands for?

"Are ya fine. _Mentally._ "

She purses her lips, a little furrow appearing between her brows. "McCree, you know I've killed people before."

He tries to move his injured arm, curses when it sparks like miniature fireworks. Uses his good arm to point down the stairs. " _This_ many people?"

A gentle breeze sweeps the open air, blowing the suffocating stench of blood and pulse ammunition towards the west. Night is breaking across the district, causing street lamps all over the city to flicker to life like a scattering of fireflies.

Hana's high, childlike voice is sharp as ice.

"Jesse, I'm fine."

 _Dare to object,_ her posture says, rigid against the moonlight.

All of a sudden, the air seems too cold against McCree's tan skin. He wonders if he's broached a touchy subject-

Then the subway explodes.

The only warning he has is a blinding flash of white seconds before the sounds hits- a _BOOM_ that pounds on his eardrums like an overly enthusiastic drummer- McCree moves without thinking, bodyslams Hana to the cold cement, one arm over her back and the other clutching his hat on his head-

 _WHOOOSH!_ Fire and smoke rolls from the hole in the ground in a sudden plume, sending waves of heat slamming into McCree's back like a physical force. Hana screams something, muffled against McCree's chestplate. There's nothing but roaring in McCree's ears, the roaring of fire and flame from the hole that was once a subway, and now the entrance to motherfucking hell.

"Where the hell do they think they're aiming?!" yells Hana, scrambling out from under McCree to a good distance away from the heat. He follows as best he can- _goddamn, this arm, I gotta detach it-_ before he twists to observe the wreckage.

The entrance remains relatively untouched. But the inside, where the bomb's must've detonated- are completely obscured by roiling flames, blurring the air above it with heat waves. The fire spills from the mouth of the subway like a monster trying to drag itself from a pit, to feast on the fuel that McCree's and Hana's bodies provide.

Well, then. The rest of the Talon fuckers must've blown themselves up. Like Jefe always said, _failure is never an option for a terrorist._

"They weren't trying to kill us. They knew it wasn't gonna get us," mutters McCree as he scrapes himself off of the ground, his metal arm giving a jolt with the motion. Masking a grimace of pain as just squinting into the flames, he continues, "Nah, they knew it was gonna cost them to clean up the mess we left behind there, so instead of bothering to do that they just blew the place up."

He waves his gloved hand in a slow rainbow across a sky of dark blues and firey reds. "Twenty firebombs equals nothing left. Smell that stench? That's burning corpses, m'friend."

Hana, against all odds, brightens like a light. "So we did it! They gave up. Look at all the shit we caused."

She waves at the wreckage, and McCree has to admit, it's an impressive sight. An odd feeling of shared pride permeates the air.

Wanton destruction of your enemies tends to do that.

Yes, that's right. McCree and Hana are both alive, untouched… well, perhaps not untouched, but he _did_ it. He'd protected the target and his first Overwatch mission in a decade was a success.

"Fuck," whistles McCree, quietly. Under his breath.

He's mildly surprised to hear an echo of that sentiment just to his right, just a little bit louder. "Yeah. _Shibal_."

McCree turns to look at Hana Song. There's just the smallest grin on the short girl's face, crooked against her pale skin.

Now, McCree is no expert when it comes to foreign languages. He'd half-assed his entire sporadic trip to Korea, and neglected on all of that pre-op stuff that Blackwatch had made him do back in the day- brushing up on the culture, the language, blending in with the locals. He didn't know any words or common phrases in Korean. Hell, he didn't even know how to say _hello._

But with a certainty that rings deep in his bones, for some reason that transcends language barriers- he _knows-_ he just, he just _knows-_ that 'shibal' is the Korean equivalent of _fuck._

" _Fuck,_ " he says, louder. With more energy, and a crooked smile of his own. He plants his hands on his hips and glares down at Hana, daring her to _try topping that._

Hana's grin grows wider, and she yells, positively _screams_ into the frigid air, " _Shibal!"_

" _Fuck!"_

" _Shibal!"_

" _FUCK!"_

" _SHIBAL!"_

" _FUCK!"_

" _SHIBAL!"_

They're laughing like maniacs, they're laughing like idiots. The police can come rolling by any second now, and they'd see a grown-ass man in a cowboy hat and a short, skinny girl in a pink jacket shouting their heads off into the night. Surrounding by roiling smoke and glowing cinders, and the ruins of public property. The heat from the subway is searing his skin, even from twenty feet away.

Maybe they've finally gone insane.

 _Well,_ McCree thinks between choking bouts of laughter, _even if the world is falling down… at least I'll have a partner._

He wipes his streaming eyes to look at Hana, who's doubled over, wheezing for breath as pathetic, breathless chuckles roll from her mouth. _A little miss._

Warmth flares in his chest, hotter than the Nevada sun.

_It feels damn good to have a partner._

* * *

She feels sort of like a badass. She'd shot so many Talon agents, made it out without a scratch. Sure, perhaps that was because they were trying not to damage her- in her mind, it's still a notable accomplishment.

The elusive terrorist sect hunting her down, cornering her in a dead end?

 _I've done it,_ DVA whispers to herself. _I killed them all._

The little Talon pulse gun rests heavy against her jeans, surely close to out of ammunition, though she knows not how to check. Her hands are oddly clammy; she wipes them on her jeans with a tremulous sigh.

 _What have I done?_ Hana whispers to herself. _I killed them all._

But DVA's mood will not be ruined. Her thoughts shoot off on the previous tangent- that if this is how things are, then- couldn't she go back and visit Amin and Tara? Surely she and McCree would be able to defend the two from Talon. The indomitable terrorist force didn't seem nearly as threatening now.

"Say, McCree," she says, turning towards the cowboy. His walk is unsteady, as if the lack of control in his mechanical arm is unbalancing the man. But when he meets her eye, there's a twinkle in there she's never seen before.

"What is it, miss?"

"We can visit them, right? The Lees, I mean. We turned away Talon once, we can do it again. I mean- once we go to Seoul, and I get my training done and shit."

McCree tilts his head, his hat nearly sliding off his skull with the movement. " _Once_ you become an Overwatch agent. Then I s'ppose it's definitely possible. If they want to, of course."

"They'll want to." Hana checks the map leaflet- the nearest subway is a good mile away, unfortunately, and was going to take a lot of walking. Their glorious plan was to blindly tackle another subway as soon as McCree got his shot-up arm fixed, this time armed with past experience and the knowledge that Hana was not to be harmed, no matter what. To blend in- get on the subway with a crowd-

Her new phone started buzzing against her leg, blaring a J-rock ringtone from Hana's back pocket that suits Tara more than words can express.

Hana arches her eyebrow at McCree. He shrugs back at her, an obvious _it's yer call._

Against her better judgement, Hana picks it up. " _Ahnyunghaseo?_ "

"GET TO MY APARTMENT. BRING THE COWBOY." Tara's voice hits Hana like a wall of sound, loud and genuinely _afraid._

That scares her. She's never heard Tara sound like that before. "Wait," sputters Hana, her mind blanking in confusion, while McCree leans in with a curious look. "Wait, Tara, what's-"

" _I don't know._ I'm at my taekwondo place- I'm going there right now- Amin just called me- says there's some man at home, scary looking guy with a- a skull mask, that he's looking for you, and that I shouldn't come home. Just-" _A guy in a skull mask?_ Hana's never seen anyone like that- Tara's voice rises, sharply, "Just hurry up, you bastard!"

The phone clicks off. Hana stares at the object in her hand, totally dumbfounded.

Could this be related to Talon? All the operatives wore masks, didn't they? But she sounded like they'd just sent one agent-

McCree speaks up. "Hana, what the hell did she say?"

She gives him the three-second version: "Guy with a skull mask showed up at the apartment." Hana looks up at McCree and her heart sinks. It's just as she feared; his skin goes a shade paler and his brows furrow and it's every sign of recognition being displayed on his face at once- and as far as Hana knows, the people that elicit that sort of reaction from _McCree_ couldn't be nice.

They need to go _now._

"McCree, they're in trouble. We need to leave," says Hana, panic rising in her throat again. "We need to help them-"

He crosses his arms. "No."

Hana blinks, mouth still half-open, because her brain simply cannot process what he had just said.

" _What?_ "

"This is the only chance we're going to get." When he turns towards her, shadows seem to gather under the brim of his hat, blotting his face out with a swatch of pure darkness. "My arm's shot up. Yer almost out of ammo. If we go there- it's not just them that's going to die- do you know who that man in the mask is?"

Hana lets out a breathless " _What the fuck, McCree?_ "

McCree takes a step forward, towering over her, continuing in a growl. "That is the _Reaper,_ Hana. His skillset is clearly a direct import from Overwatch- or more specifically, Blackwatch. Meaning he received the same training as me, fer way _longer,_ and with my arm being as it is, there ain't a snowball's chance in _hell_ that we can kill 'im. If we go to the station knowing he ain't there to stop us, we're being _smart."_

She refuses to be cowed. This isn't some people she doesn't know that they're talking about, it's _Amin_ and _Tara._ Her words are biting- "You're a fucking coward is what you are. They helped us, and you just want to let them die?"

"HANA." McCree is practically shouting now as he seizes her by the shoulders; she jumps a foot but he doesn't let go. "I'm sorry. I don't want this either, but we don't have another _fucking choice. You will be caught if you go there. That's what they want._ "

"That's right. I don't have a fucking choice." Hana pulls away roughly, hands trembling. The rabbit charm jingles distantly from her wrist to the rhythm of her throbbing pulse. "I need to go there. Even if you won't. I have to."

His voice rises, frustrated and angry and it _hurts._ "Yer going to die. You can't do this, think about it, it's not logical-"

_If I go, I will die. If I don't go, I will one day kill myself over the guilt, I swear to you._

She can't stand it anymore- she turns, tears away down the street; McCree's yell of _"HANA!"_ being lost to the stamping of her shoes against the street.

There are tears burning in her eyes, tears that she refuses to let go. She has to go. It's what's _fucking_ logical.

_I mean, we're friends, aren't we?_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> AaaAAAAAHH. Where to begin.
> 
> I haven't forgotten about this story, not at all! In fact, I was working on it for most of this month- it's just been slow going because I jammed my hand on a football. Two fingers, to be exact, are broken.
> 
> So I've had to hop around the keyboard typing with one hand because the other one's taped up, and it's pretty painful to use. I now sympathize with McCree in the story…
> 
> Also, if you hadn't noticed, this is about 2.5 times longer than my usual chapters! The same will probably apply to next chapter, which will also take a while to write because my broken fingers obviously haven't healed in the space of a month.
> 
> I've still been internally thanking all the new followers and giggling like a little girl over all the comments- thank you so much, everyone. You guys are the reason why I've even bothered trying to write this chapter with only one hand.
> 
> About the next chapter… as a general warning, there'll be a lot more of everything- dark thoughts, emotional pain, injuries and gore, character introductions(!), depression, fighting and action.
> 
> No spoilers. So just be prepared.


	21. close your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, no.

_Typing out the last chapter with my finger splints apparently hindered my healing process. So this time I waited for my fingers to completely heal (or at least until I could get the splint off) to finish this chapter, which took a couple months. Now it's been off for three days and I've already finished the chapter! I have no life!_

_**THE ART IS HERE! SKETCHES OF AMIN AND TARA:** https://sta.sh/01feu5lbne5g_

[NOTE FROM THE ARTIST: Hey, I'm Miriam, and I'm sorry for how messy the sketches are. I did them during math class to motivate Tex to write more of this fic :L Please give his work love by sending him fanart through private msg~ I know I definitely will~ (to me) You'll feature them, won't you? ]

_She's right, I will. If you have any fanart then please do send them to me so I can put it on the fic._

_CHAPTER WARNINGS: VIOLENCE, GORE, DARK EMOTIONS & MORE . BE CAREFUL._

_Alright, don't want to keep you all waiting. With no further ado, here is the next chapter of LOH._

* * *

"She asked me why I cared."

Tara turns to look at Amin, who is carefully watering a pot of African violets.

Amin lets out a mechanical hum. She tips back her watering can, stopping the gentle flow of water. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. And I told her that it's 'cos we're friends. But honestly, I can't do anything to help her. So what kind of friend am I, anyways?" Tara eyes the flowers, delicate things that shiver with the slightest movement.

"Even with all that squabbling before, I could tell that you really wanted her to stay safe in the end," Amin comments. "I'm proud of you."

Tara blinks. "Oh- you noticed? Well…" She reconsiders, with a grin. This is  _Amin,_ after all, whose methods of finding out information are literally inhuman. "Well, of course you noticed. You noticed Hana, and the fight, and  _everything._ "

"Hana is a bright girl, and I'm sure she'll do well," says her mother genially. The Omnic swivels on her torso to set the watering can down on the counter. "McCree-nim is not a bad man either. I think they will be able to accomplish their goals, whatever they may be."

The thing is, Tara doesn't doubt that. She may be an average girl with little knowledge regarding the workings of Overwatch, but even she can see the aura of potential that surrounds the two. McCree is a seasoned veteran, while Hana is a talented, young rookie ( _and not to mention pro gamer DVA herself!_ )

But  _surviving_  and  _living_  are two very different things in Tara's mind. She frowns, leans back in her kitchen chair so that it balances precariously on its two back legs.

Perhaps Hana will survive through all this, but she will never truly live her life.

The thought is depressing. "Ever the optimist to my pessimist, eh, Mom?"

"Hope is not a bad thing." Amin makes her way to the next potted plant with delicate steps. "If I wasn't an optimist, I would've never taken you in, remember?"

Of course Tara remembers. The memory makes her feel warm, though once it had made her feel very cold and very lonely- knowing that the only person to ever care about her was a loathsome Omnic. A small smile creeps up onto her face as she muses, "I was really damn frightened of you. Sorry."

"Given the history of Omnics at the time, it makes sense. Do not think too much of it," chides Amin. She parses through the new growth of her basil plant, delicate spring-green leaves that poke from old stems.

"I was going to leave you at first because you were so hostile, but you were so new to me." There is something melancholy about her laugh. "I'd never seen such a tiny human before."

Tara huffs. "Eight-year-olds aren't that tiny."

"Then again, I've never been eight years old," the Omnic counters gently. "I was manufactured at this size and emotional maturity, and neither has increased to date." Amin turns and ruffles Tara's short hair, a familial action. Ignoring her first instinct of ducking away, Tara begrudgingly allows the destruction of whatever neatness her hair had previously achieved.  _This is what mothers do._

"You still treat me like I'm eight," she grumbles. She supposes Amin doesn't understand the concept of  _growing up_ as well as a human might. No- perhaps just not in the same  _way._

"And you should consider yourself lucky. I spoil you so badly," hums Amin, leaning in close over Tara's chair. Tara tilts her head back to look at Amin's faceplate, which hovers right above hers.

Tara thinks of Hana, homeless and parentless. She thinks of how easily she could have ended up just like her, if not for that one fateful day. Omnic or not, Tara has somebody to watch her back.

And she smiles.

"That's right, I'm damn lucky." She pokes at the center of Amin's face, where a human nose would've been. " _Boop!_ "

Amin chuckles, a mechanical, whimsical sound, before pulling away. "Come, Tara, get into your  _dobok_.Taekwondo at the  _dojang_  starts in twenty minutes."

"Yeah, I know," Tara scoffs with a smirk, pushing back her chair and standing. The quarterfinalist tournament is today, and she knows- she just fucking  _knows_ that she'll be the one to take home the gold medal this time around. Ahni Joseon will not beat her on a technicality.

Perhaps Hana's sudden appearance in her home had distracted Tara for a little bit, but now is the time to practice. To win.

Tara makes her way out the door to the taekwondo  _dojang_ in high spirits. Somehow, the moon hovering big and yellow in the sky has never looked brighter.

* * *

"The girl- human one- just left the building," Sombra offers, tongue curling on the r's. She splays out her fingers on the holoscreen, zooming into the lone figure sporting a black belt. It walks down the parking lot, a big blue tote bag swinging from its shoulder. "How far is Sigma from  _el objetivo?_ "

" _We're forty feet away,"_ comes the gravelly voice of Reaper over the earpiece.  _"Where is the Omnic."_

"Still inside." Sombra swivels on her chair, bored out of her mind and wishing she was in the thick of things, not watching the action from a mile away from her portable computer van.

Though, now that she thinks about it, what fun is there in putting down something as ridiculously helpless as an ET-03 Omnic? Reaper is only there to tell Overwatch, specifically the cowboy, that there is no hope in retrieving or saving anyone.

As for the Omnic, Amin Lee… they could've sent just one Talon agent and the outcome would still be the same: Amin would die. Reaper and the Sigma sect is there entirely for show.

Contrary to popular belief, murder and destruction is not the backbone of terrorism. Scare tactics and manipulation of the general public's emotions and perception of reality- that is what defines Talon as a  _terrorist group,_ not a simple group of mercenaries running free.

So Sombra appreciates the careful planning of this little excursion. For little Hana, it is a carefully manufactured lose-lose situation- one way or the other, from Amin or Tara or McCree or from the news, she will find out that her friend is in danger and that she must save them, while also knowing that the Reaper is waiting for her there. If McCree shows up ( _though he's much too sly for that_ ) then Reaper can take care of the injured cowboy as well. Simple.

Laughably simple.

Then again, most of her plans go off without a hitch. Sombra grins, spins in her chair again, dipping her hand into the big bag of  _El Dorados_ chips and then popping a handful into her mouth. She crunches noisily on the bright colored snack as she tilts her head at the screens.

Sombra used to watch the girl's streams, sometimes. Switch to a random channel in some suburban area, and DVA's giggling was often the first thing she heard. Fun times.

"Bad guys, one. DVA, zero," she quips aloud.

* * *

Amin watches through the floor-to-ceiling windows as a sleek, unmarked black van pulls into the parking lot of her apartment complex. She knows every apartment resident's car by license plate, so the van is highly abnormal. Considering Hana's claim that a terrorist group is after her- well, if Amin was anyone else, she would probably call the cops.

But, as Mr. McCree had observed, Amin is in fact not an ET-03, and attracting police attention to her fugitive status is  _not_ something she can afford to do. And besides, how would the police help anyways? They would never be able to stand against some mysterious globe-spanning terrorist sect. A bloodbath would occur, and it would all be Amin's fault.

 _Unacceptable. I don't want anyone to die._ She watches as a stream of people, sporting black outfits and guns, exit the van, making a beeline for the apartment complex. Ignoring the security cameras no doubt perched everywhere.

 _Unless… they somehow shut them off?_ Was that even possible?

Somewhere far below them, distantly, a  _bang_ from a gun. Amin's nonexistent heart hurts, mechanical fingers clenching. Old Mr. Joon had served as the apartment's receptionist for over twenty years, as he liked to boast. And there he went, dead in an instant.

She calculates that she has roughly forty seconds before they get to her floor.

Buzzing rises in the wires circulating through her metallic body, heating her OS chip and causing her to still. It's  _fear,_ the one human feeling she loathes. Fear because today might be the night she dies. What was the saying again?  _You never think you're going to die until you do._

 _No. I cannot panic, not now._ Thinking of her own death is demoralizing; what she needs to do is  _strategize._ She clasps her hands together, briefly recalibrates her memory engine, and then switches off all the lights in the apartment. After all, she doesn't need them. An advantage that Omnics in particular have when it comes to saving the electricity bill: not falling to the human weaknesses of bad night vision.

In her newfound darkness, Amin considers her options. Calling Tara is not one of them. If these people are truly dangerous, then it doesn't matter how tough Tara is- she'd be dead before she reached the door. Mr. McCree and Hana… Amin knows Hana's new phone number, but she and McCree could be miles away by now; therefore calling them is both impractical and possibly luring them into a trap.

That leaves Amin entirely on her own. If she had the lungs to sigh, she definitely would.

 _Ten more seconds,_ her internal timer tells her. Fear is still there, hot in her chest. But she will not let it control her.

Hide? She will be caught. The apartment has only five rooms, and open gates, not lockable doors, connect two of them. Running for her life won't work either- her death will be long, prolonged, possibly filmed, and involve too many innocent lives. Besides, the only exit is through the elevator Talon is currently riding. No, Amin Lee has to stand her ground.

Her optics flash. They don't think she's noticed them, but oh, Amin has.

She has a particular talent for noticing things.

In fact, it's impossible  _not_  to notice, what with her heat-sig optics that can zoom in up to one hundred and four feet.

 _19 HEAT SIGNATURES DETECTED,_ a message beeps somewhere in her memory storage. She focuses on the glowing huddle of reds and yellows rising with the elevator. The doors chime distantly; the figures step off and begin down the hallway.

_Ten seconds to contact. Nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three…_

The mass of red and yellow stops right in front of her door.

It rattles on its hinges before half-bursting through the frame, with the modulated cry of "HANDS UP WHERE WE CAN SEE-"

It's a trick—they certainly don't need her alive, they just want to kill her with little resistance. She activates her barrier right as the bullets start raining.

The metal clumps lodge into the barrier with peculiar  _zing, zing, zing_ sounds, causing the entire translucent, blue hard-light structure to shudder. It's a military-grade shield- both she and the agents know that it'll stay up for quite some time- and yet the agents, with their fancy Kevlar and body-hugging armor, keep their guns blazing anyways, peppering the kitchen behind her with holes. A stray bullet hits the basil pot; the plant explodes in a mess of pottery and dirt.

It's shattering all around her, going to pieces. Years of overcoming prejudice. Years of work. Years of saving money. Years of careful building, of designing for clients, decoration, cultivating her own little garden- there it goes, there goes  _everything-_

 _No. Not everything._ The rays of hope hit her as if a slowly-rising sun had just peeked over the horizon.  _Tara is alive. Tara- she can't come home tonight; I have to warn her-_

" _Cease the fire,"_  intones a deep, cold voice. It crackles and shudders like the embers of a cooling fire.

The well-oiled combat machine that is this group of terrorists must greatly respect this man, because they stop firing immediately. Amin can't fire and keep her barrier up at the same time- both take an unhealthy amount of energy to sustain- so she decides to prioritize the safety of her body over killing the rest of the agents. The barrier remains up, a transparent wall that divides her from Death.

_Literally._

Because something dark and slithering phases from the shadows, slowly, easily, and it's easy to imagine it as some Grim Reaper. The first thing that distinguishes itself from the enveloping darkness is a mask- bone-white and shaped like some animal's skull. Next is a belt clipped with hundreds of red shotgun shells, strapped around a broad, black-clad chest.

Lastly are two  _gigantic_ shotguns dangling from each clawed hand, glinting menacingly in the moonlight.

But more frightening than the mask, the guns, the wisps of smoke trailing from his body, is the fact that he has no heat signature.

Amin recalibrates her optics.  _19 HEAT SIGNATURES DETECTED,_ it beeps again, though there are clearly twenty people in the room. Again-  _19 HEAT SIGNATURES DETECTED._ Once more….  _19 HEAT SIGNATURES DETECTED._

It is like he simply does not exist- some phantom that hovers in the shadows with a half-transparent body. That, coupled with his size- muscular to near-inhuman proportions- makes him a terrifying thing to behold.

Fear is in her like a virus, infecting every part of her being, some long-hidden survival instinct rising to the surface of Amin's calm and collected nature. This…  _thing_ should not exist.

She records a live message, one that will send to Tara's phone immediately. "Tara, dear, please don't go home," she begins, calmly as possible. "There's a man in a skull mask here. He's after Hana, not you or me, but if you get in the way- you'll be in a lot of trouble, okay? Go stay with Kyung tonight. He'll understand. S…see you tomorrow."

The Phantom and his cohorts, curiously enough, make no motion to stop her. The Phantom in particular just stares at her with the empty voids of his mask.

Her metallic hand is trembling when it draws away from her earpiece.

What is she doing here? Why is she being targeted? She'd forgotten how to do this, forgotten how it felt to fight for her life. This was something she had given up so long ago, when she'd first met little Tara with her reproachful stare and hate for Omnics.

 _There is something wrong with this,_ Amin had realized.  _I want the little human to trust me._

_I want something to love._

So they had run away together from their previous lives, starting anew in this quiet part of Busan. Tara managed to become an ordinary girl, not just another orphan from the Omnic Crisis, and the lone SPECTR had used her talents in design to carve out a career for herself. To become-

" _An ET-03 Omnic civilian that goes by 'Amin Lee'._ " The man (? Woman? Omnic? Animal?) steps forward, his step heavy on Amin's once-pristine hardwood floor.  _"Sombra's exact words. But here we are instead, with a SPECTR."_ He puts a hand to his hood- activating some com that Amin can't see. _"What is the meaning of this, Sombra?"_

His voice sounds like crumbling gravel. Every instinct within Amin, both programmed and learned, screams for her to back away.

"SPECTR-4M1N," she corrects calmly, shifting her barrier slightly upwards. "You're awfully knowledgeable, Mister."

He takes his hand away from the earpiece, apparently satisfied with whatever answer he received.  _"Of course. 4-M-1-N._ Amin. _Adorable,"_  the Phantom sneers. Another step- how curious that the floorboards shift with every move forward, signaling true weight, and yet smoke wisps off of him like he is an ethereal being.

"What are you doing here?" Amin challenges, jutting her chin forward. "This is an invasion of my home. The neighbors-"

" _The neighbors all happen to be out today,"_  cuts in the Phantom disinterestedly.  _"Curious how that happens. And what are_ you  _doing here, SPECTR-4M1N? We had all of you dismantled after the war."_

She cocks her head. "Raising a child."

" _More than a little unsuccessfully, it seems. You got yourself involved in the worst trouble you could have tonight."_ Amin's spine frame tingles- so she had been right, sensing that Hana was trouble in its most terrible form that first day they had met.

But she regrets nothing. Regretting is a fool's pastime. Amin is a fool no longer.

The Phantom continues in a growl, his mask staring blankly at her. " _All of you damn bots got scrapped at Geneva. The hell are you doing, still crawling around clinging to life?"_

 _At Geneva._ That's a highly confidential event. Amin can count the number of people who know of what happened there on one hand, keeping in mind she only has four fingers.

So _he's another Omnic Crisis veteran,_ she realizes. It's a strange feeling, knowing that she may have once worked with him. Back when she was just another Omnic unit, a cog in the hive mind with little say in anything.

_Despicable._

Amin was never a part of Talon, but she remembers a terrorist organization like it cooperating with Null Sector in the past. One wanted power, the other wanted Omnic supremacy, both wanted chaos. Where interests aligned, so did forces.

The Talon agents spread behind the Phantom, guns trained on her barrier. If they all fire at once, she'd have maybe ten seconds before everything went to pieces.

" _In any case, I'm impressed that you've been able to hide away for so long,"_  the Phantom drawls. He raises one of his truly ginormous shotguns, slinging it over his shoulder.  _"Then again, SPECTR units were covert ops, so slinking away must've been child's play. Must have been easy to obtain ET-03 status, compared to the poor Bastions."_

No Talon agent would run his mouth like this without reason. "What are you trying to say?" she asks lowly.

" _That the only ones who know you're a SPECTR- or what a SPECTR even_ is-  _is us and you."_  He tilts his head to the side, either in empty contemplation or to simply crick his neck. The owlish mask gleams at her.

" _You could tell us where Hana Song is. Or we could ruin your life."_

If the government finds out about her- automatic dismantling. Tara would be taken away from her, to some foster family that would never care as much as Amin did. She tilts her head right back at him, a slow realization settling into her wire frame.

_I'm not walking out of here alive._

It's a hollow realization, not a sudden or painful one.

She would never betray poor little Hana. She would never be able to watch Tara get taken from her custody. She will never be able to get past this Phantom and his operatives.

But those are all things she'd known from the very beginning, parts of her core identity. Robot or not, she had morals, and she'd stick with them to the end.

" _Damn foolish of you to think you could run from Talon."_  The Phantom levels his shotgun at Amin's head, and she stiffens even though the barrier is still up.  _"Now, what's your answer?"_

Master Tekartha had said violence is never an option. Peace was the only way to achieve one's goals; any other method only brings temporary satisfaction.

But she'd always wondered, however much she trusted the Mondotta's words, why it was that people with guns always held the most power in this world. The ability to inflict damage seemed to be more prized than Master Tekartha's ability to solve negotiations peacefully. If  _peace_ was true power, then why did Talon exist? Why did  _she,_ built to serve in the military,exist? Why was it that an organization of the righteous, Overwatch, killed and hurt just the same as Null Sector?

Mondotta Zenyatta had remained silent. Looked to the side, at the snow falling over the Nepalese mountains. And unlike any other Mondotta, he'd directly answered her question.

_Sometimes, we have no other choice._

Amin brings down her barrier. In an instant, her arm is extended.

The hand flips back to reveal a cannon.

His body  _phases_ through the shot, becoming smoke and ethereal wisp, so the pulse shell explodes in a shower of shrapnel and dust behind him- at the Talon agents crowded by the door. Sudden cries of surprise emanate from huddle of sound, meaning she caught at least a couple of her unwanted guests by surprise. Amin takes a step away from the rubble.

The cylinders of her forearms spin as blue energy discharge sparks off of her dual pulsor cannons. Her optic flashes a sinister red.

A quick scan tells her everything. One is dead. Another is splayed across the floor- glancing blow to the side, resulting in three fractured ribs and a ruptured lung, if her x-ray scan is still accurate after all these years. Amin watches as seventeen of the glowing heat signatures back against the hallway wall.

"Surrender. All else is futile," Amin says calmly, an automatic response ingrained deep into her code. She aims her cannons at the wall again, knowing that the pulse ammunition in her arms, inactive for so many years, is more than powerful enough to punch through a building.

 _BOOM,_ she jerks with the recoil, the wall she and Tara had carefully painted four years ago explodes into chunks of plaster and foam. The heat signatures scramble away from the wall with a smattering of curses, three of them are caught in the collapsing wall.

The Phantom appears from the cloud of dust like a monster, both shotguns raised this time. She activates her barrier; it flickers into existence just in time-

 _BANG, BANG-_ the damage is incredible, so much more than the shield has ever taken at once. The  _recoil_ from his shots must be incredible, more than any ordinary human can handle, and yet he shuffles forward, shooting still, blasting her barrier with buckshot-  _bang, bang, bang-_

The rectangle of blue shatters on the seventh shot. Amin throws herself down; the eighth shot whizzes through empty air where her head had been moments earlier.

But as she rears up, determined to get her cannon into the Phantom's face, the Phantom kicks her chest, denting its metal carapace with his boot. She stumbles back, warning symbols flashing in her vision, as he presses the shotgun to her forehead.

_Beep, beep, beep. WARNING. WARNING. WARNING._

Amin tenses; it's too late.  _Too late-_

" _We're waiting for someone,_ " says the Phantom conversationally, his voice more threatening than his gun. Then, directed towards the mess of Talon agents behind him-  _"Regroup behind me."_

And they do, dutifully ignoring the weak cries of the fallen agent, still clutching at his side from the ground, with a stone-heartedness that reminds Amin uncomfortably of her own days in the Omnic Crisis.

 _Waiting._ They're not killing her- not yet- but fear is blooming true now, because the unknown frightens her more than anything else. Death-  _death_ is a certainty. Yet here they are, keeping her alive, keeping Death one trigger away.

Then it occurs to her. That they wish to know Hana's location, and that she is an Omnic and therefore hackable.

"I don't know where the girl is," Amin says in as calmly a voice as she can manage. "I hardly know-"

" _We'll be the judges of that,"_ cuts in the Reaper with a low growl. He presses the gun harder into her head, probably just out of spite. " _Shut up._ "

"As you have so observantly picked up," she continues, unperturbed, "I am a SPECTR. A  _military_ omnic manufactured by the  _South Koreans,_ top robotics experts. There is no way into my head, or out of it either. Just shoot me and be done with it. Hackers have tried to interrogate me before-"

"-but none of them were as good as me."

Amin's optic shifts, seeking the source of this sound. The voice has a distinct Hispanic accent, lilting and mischievous in every way.

A woman steps through the huddle of Talon agents like she's parting the Red Sea, and Amin is briefly surprised to see the amount of respect they show her, simply because… this woman is small, smaller than the others. Maybe it's the taper of her body, or the way she curls her fingers and walks, but something about her feels very delicate.

She's outfitted in a purple outfit straight out of a  _StarWars_ movie, glimmering in a way that attracts more attention than anyone else in the room. Her face is petite and bears a malicious grin, reminiscent of a pixie. A particularly cruel pixie. Maybe it's just Amin's imagination, but the edges of her coat seem to flicker in and out of sight.

" _Se_ _ñ_ _ora Robota_ , I wouldn't move if I were you."She steps up to where Amin crouches with flourish, and it's only from two feet away that Amin realizes that the woman's fingers themselves are modified for intercepting coded information. Instinctively she pulls away from them, and she's more fearful of these hands than the Phantom's shotgun.

"…I was not planning to." Something hitches in Amin's synthesized vocal cords when she realizes that this- this is actually happening… they were about to hack her. Whether successful or unsuccessful, having an intruder in her mind is simply-

The woman presses a hand to Amin's head.

And then everything  _flips-_  images begin to shiver in the corner of Amin's optics; her vision goes purple, she presses metallic palms to the floor when something in her head  _fractures, as she remembers-_

_-Snow falls like a steady rain of white over the monastery, powdering her shoulders with ethereal crystals._

" _You are no longer military Omnics," says one of the Mondottas with infuriating calm. His serene gaze pans over her and her Omnic brethren. "You all have an_ identity.  _We will introduce ourselves, in a circle, starting from you."_

_He gestures to the first Omnic in the lineup- a LM1-TIGRE, known for ripping up the battlefields with cannon shells. 4M1N distinctly remembers how one unit had fought alongside her in Null Sector before malfunctioning, wiping out half her unit with one stray shell._

_It beeps once, swivels slightly in the gentle patter of Nepalese snow._

" _LM1-TIGRE- STATIONED- IN- LIBERIA." It chirps along to a staccato rhythm. "FIFTY- THREE- KILLS- SINCE- LAST- DECEMB-"_

" _How many lives one has taken is_ not  _a core part of one's identity," interrupts the Mondotta gently. "Perhaps you can try again?"_

_The LM1-TIGRE's lights flash through red to green, apparently struggling with the request._

" _Take your time," intones the Omnic monk, its voice like the bells of Nepal given wings. "Learning is a gradual process."_

_It swivels one way, then the other. 4M1N watches with vague confusion as it seems to think over its words. Finally, it beeps out, "LM1-TIGRE- FROM- LIBERIA. MY…" …a confused beep, then a more confident, reaffirming one- "…MY- NAME- IS- CHARLIE."_

" _Very good," says Mondotta brightly. He turns towards SPECTRE-4M1N. "Would you like to try as well?"_

_The circle of ex-military Omnics watches her apprehensively. It is then that 4MIN decides establishing a hierarchy is top priority, with her preferably at its head._

" _SPECTRE-4MIN from the Korean peninsula. Two hundred and thirty-eight confirmed kills since launch," she says mechanically._

_She is distantly satisfied to see the reaction. Charlie beeps and scoots submissively backwards. All of the Omnics instinctively hunch away from her, no doubt comparing their stats to hers and realizing how inferior-_

" _With all due respect, Mondotta-sama," interrupts a cold voice, "this is futile. No one can teach a monster to frolic with lambs."_

_It comes from a tall, mechanized human form- a model of Omnic that 4MIN has never seen before, studded with wires and menacing red armor plates. Its upper half is wrapped in a silky robe, like many of the Omnic monks seem to wear. When it lifts its head slightly, 4M1N realizes-_

Oh.

It's a human.

_It has eyes, red ones that slightly glow in the darkness of its visor. Eyebrows crease above them, signaling discomfort and irritation._

" _You cannot say that until you try," chides Mondotta. He motions around him, at Charlie, and 4M1N. "They have been brought up to know nothing but battle. How can you blame them for their past transgressions?"_

_By way of response, the cyborg turns and stabs a finger at 4M1N._

_His voice is flat. "You. Is there anything wrong with killing a human being?"_

_Killing is a duty, nothing more. Something that benefits her and the rest of her cause._ Right and wrong-  _there is no right and wrong about it._

" _I'm afraid I do not understand your question," she says stiffly. "Killing is an action. An action is a movement. Movements have no moral alignment-"_

" _It does not even_ understand  _the concept of morality," cuts in the cyborg, who turns towards Mondotta in cold fury. "And you,_ Mondotta Zenyatta _\- you group me with these- these war machines?"_

_The incredulity of his voice makes 4M1N a little put off. Zenyatta apparently feels the same way, as something in his peaceful voice shifts._

" _Do you presume you are any different, Shimada?"_

_The man- Shimada- takes a step forward, his eyes twisting into something frightening-_

-"She's a SPECTR bot, alright," sniffs the woman, lifting her hand away.

It takes a second for Amin to come to her senses. Nepalese snow is gone, its blinding whiteness replaced by a dark hardwood floor.  _Her_ hardwood floor. The woman with the pointed features kneels in front of her, hand still half-raised.

What was that? Some sort of forced flashback? Amin blinks away the warning symbols still flashing away in her vision, focuses on the woman.

A more alarming thought-  _Did… she see all that, too?_

The Phantom keeps one massive shotgun trained on Amin's head. His surly voice is uncaring. "Where is it from?"

"Ask nicely, Gabi," teases the woman, sitting up straight. A grin curls on her tan face, as self-satisfied as a well fed cat.

" _Sombra."_

"The Mondottas found her." The woman- Sombra- she twirls one lock of purple hair around her finger, the look on her face contemplative. "Monastery in Nepal. Further than that… let's see…"

That specially modified hand reaches for her again. Panic blinds Amin in a way she doesn't even remember. They can kill her, they can take her apart, but they simply cannot do  _this._ This was assault in its very worst form, intruding on the innermost parts of her being, memories she has lovingly stored away for no one's eyes but her own. Such intrusion on her privacy is unacceptable.

She begins to talk, fast, perhaps to set up a negotiation. "Please-"  _just kill me._

Talon does not negotiate, and the world falls apart again.

- _"Let me help you," says 4M1N, reaching a hand towards the girl. She flinches away._

" _You're one of them." The girl's stare is empty. "The Omnics."_

_Her hair is dark- while it is hard to tell in the shadows, 4M1N is sure that it is black, maybe brown. The dark locks are short and fall around a little face, pale as the moon. Her t-shirt is a pale pink, a tattered heart printed onto its front in polyethylene. Little black slippers hang off her feet._

_4M1N has never seen such a tiny human before._

_To see such big eyes in such a small frame is… fascinating. Possessed by a sudden desire to befriend the little thing, 4M1N pulls back her hand. Procures a piece of bread from her rations bag and offers it to the girl._

_The girl pounces. The bread is gone from 4M1N's fingers in an instant. She watches as the girl practically inhales the food._

_The girl is 4M1N's Messiah. Bringing back a survivor to the refugee camps currently circling the ruins of Seoul, especially a child, grants her automatic savior status. As she is now- a mysterious Omnic approaching the camps from the wrong direction with suspiciously bulky, cannon-shaped arms- she is more likely to be gunned down than accepted into the camp. On the other hand, if she has a child in tow, 4M1N is sure her reception will be much more… enthusiastic. Children are always greeted warmly. They trust that which is young and foolish._

_Humans are strange that way._

_Finding this child was nothing short of a miracle. Most of the humans 4M1N had come across were either in pieces or bleeding out into puddles. She had knelt by several of them, and some of them had asked, even begged, to be saved._

_One optic scan and a few calculations made it clear that none of them would make it to the camps alive. So she moved on._

_4M1N had been expecting a strapping young human- mid-twenties to early thirties- to be her eventual Messiah. Someone cruel, or used to being cruel. In its current apocalyptic state, this part of Seoul is a hellhole and the only things to survive in hellholes are strong, healthy, selfish things that would sacrifice everyone's wellbeing for their own. Null Sector wouldn't let any other kind of thing live._

_And yet here she is, with this little wisp of a girl that definitely should be one of the ones missing limbs and staring blankly at the sky. How had Null Sector, which had ripped apart so much of Seoul, missed her?_

_The girl should not be alive. 4M1N, freshly arrived in Korea from Nepal, should not be alive._

_Why had she come back? There is nothing for her here. In Nepal, at least under the tutelage of the Mondottas, she was seen as an equal to all. Her past meant nothing. Her serial code meant nothing._

_But she had left nonetheless, because there was nothing more for her to learn_

_Here, 4M1N is a terrorist. After all, she'd been working covertly with other Null Sector SPECTRS to bring down Korea's inner military holds. Perhaps ordinary citizens would not be able to recognize her for who she is, but anyone in the upper ranks of the military would._

_The only thing keeping her alive is the little Null Sector-issued ET-03 serial code sticker, currently plastered under her eye that proves she is an Omnic civilian. In this wreckage of Seoul, she lives with the thrill of constant danger._

_Much like the little girl._

_The little girl with her frightened eyes and bruised arms, who finishes wolfing down the bread and pins 4M1N with a fierce stare. Her tone is accusing._

" _You killed everyone."_

 _Something about that feels… wrong. "I didn't."_ My sisters did.  _"I just arrived here. I can help…"_

_She offers a tentative hand, something warm blossoming in her cold, cold innards. Somewhere deep inside her, past all the fizzling wires and metal parts._

_The girl may not trust 4M1N, and she may even loathe her. But right now what they're aiming for is survival for survival's sake- anything beyond that, they must worry about later. The girl reluctantly slips her hand into 4M1N's._

_4M1N stands, fingers curling around the unfamiliar warmth of the girl's hand. The strange feeling stays there, inside her, and she thinks that perhaps this is what the Mondottas were talking about in Nepal. That there is something deeper to life than giving and taking. That there is breaking and mending somewhere in there, as well._

_Their first order of business is to go somewhere safe. This crumbling shell of a building is not fit to raise a child, and as long as 4M1N has her ET-03 serial sticker, she is free to fraternize with humans. As ironic as it may seem, 4M1N's previous 'enemies' are the safest place to take the child, and for her as well- only a fool would attack someone with an innocent young human, even if they are with a potentially dangerous Omnic._

_The importance that humans and Omnics alike denote to serial codes is curious. They are a simple string of numbers and letters, meaningless to anyone without a guidebook to Omnics. Yet one code means instant death, while the other means the right to exist._

_Unless you are a human, and have no need for serial codes. 4M1N looks down at the child, now parentless but blessed with a freedom 4M1N has never possessed._ Lucky, lucky.

_It occurs to her that while this child may be Amin's savior, the other way around also holds true._

" _What is your name, little human?"_

_The child kicks at a stone, sending it into the opposite wall. Her gaze is sullen._

"… _Tara."_

 _Tara. '_ Star'.

Something hazy and purple hovers over her, their voice muffled by a ringing in Amin's head. It fades in and out of Amin's awareness.

"… _important… Gabe, listen por un momento…"_

 _Who is Gabe?_ Amin wonders distantly. She cannot seem to focus. She tries to push herself up, into a sitting position, but her arms aren't working. They just sit there, silver against the shrapnel-ridden floor. Her system resets, once, twice, trying to stave off whatever virus had broken in.

"…  _Mierda, I took too long…Null Sector, she was a… I think it… broke her… recalibrate, just wait a mome… GABE-"_

Something black points at her head. Her optics turn it into a fuzzy smear that shifts to press against her faceplate. Somewhere above it hovers a white shape- a mask shaped like a skull.

 _Tara._ That's right; she had been thinking about Tara. Amin sighs, and something like pride fills her.

My  _daughter._

CLICK.

**_BANG-_ **

* * *

A van is parked outside, sleek and black and every bit the vehicle Talon would use.

Hana runs towards the tall, grey building.  _I'm too late._

 _Thump, thump, thump-_ her new shoes fly across the cement but she's not fast enough, she needs to find Tara. Tara, who probably got here first, because the Taekwondo  _dojang_ is just that much closer to the apartment. Tara, who would just go in without thinking about anything but Amin's safety. Tara, who has never faced Talon before-

Her throat is burning from exertion, but she screams anyways. "TAAAAAAAAAAAARA!"

Hana slams through the glass doors with all her weight and gags- the stench of blood is thick in the air. An old man is slumped across the reception desk, blood pooling indiscriminately beneath him. She recognizes him as the receptionist, and her heart seizes.

_My fault. This is all my fault. How many more-_

Sixth floor. Sixth floor. She slams her fist against the elevator button repeatedly; the doors close with a  _ding_ and then she's rising. Hana prepares to bolt from the elevator as soon as the doors will let her, chanting underneath her breath,  _"Room 24, Room 24, Room 24, Room 24-"_

What will she say to Amin? What will she say to Tara? She still has her gun; it's tucked into her back pocket, though she doesn't know if it has any ammunition left. Like last time, Talon won't be able to hurt her. They'll be too afraid to 'damage' an asset like herself; she'll be able to shoot them all down, everything will be okay-

_I can fix this!_

_Ding._ The doors slide open. She runs.

The hall feels more endless than usual. The silence hanging heavy in contrast to her flapping feet is eerie; where is everyone else? Doesn't Amin have neighbors? So many people in one building, so how-

She slows.

Long splinters of wood lie in disarray on the carpeted floor. Room 24's door has been busted through, hinges still hanging haphazardly from one side of the crumbling frame. The door, now a mere plank of wood, is on the floor, whereupon a girl is crouched.

A girl still dressed in a white taekwondo  _dobok,_ completewith a black belt wrapped around her waist. Her short hair flies disheveled around her head.

Hana had prepared so many words as she came here. She had so many things to say to Tara- apologies, reassurances, promises, and so why- why does everything fall away as she stands here, mind as blank as a sheet of paper?

And she, for the first time, looks into the carnage of the room.

The parts that had once been assembled into a structure called  _Amin_ lays haphazardly about the floor, soaked in oil and entangled in sputtering wires. Her torso is draped across the kitchen, one long, slender leg off to the right side of the floor, while the other is scattered in pieces across the living room.

One faceplate lies smoldering at the heart of it all. The soothing blue light in her forehead has been replaced by a gaping hole. Once seemingly alive eyes stare, dead, up at Hana.

Whoever had killed her did not just shoot her and leave it at that. No, they'd gone to  _pains_ in order to desecrate Amin's body, to leave behind the most horrifying sight that Hana has ever seen. Like a child carelessly playing with an especially fragile doll.

Hana gags. She stares at this B-grade horror movie carnage. She stares at  _Amin._

Unlike downstairs, this room does not stink of blood. There are no entrails, no pieces of limbs hanging from threads of flesh.

And yet the suffocating smell of oil, the knowledge that this- this pile of scrap metal, so cruelly disemboweled and carelessly placed- to know that this was once someone's mother, someone  _Hana_ would call 'mother'-

She wants to throw up. A burning pain arises in her stomach- in her eyes- tears swallow her whole like a painful wave-

Tara is crying. The realization hits her hollow self like another blow to her fragile mind, that  _Tara_ is  _crying-_ strong, fierce Tara with her middle-finger-up attitude and brash strength. Tara is shuddering, down on the floor, tears streaming down a deathly pale face. Silent. She rocks back and forth, ever so slightly.

_Too late._

_Too late._

There is no strength to be found in Hana's body. She slides to the floor, onto her knees, where cold oil seeps through her thin leggings.

 _My fault._ She wants to cry, too. She hasn't cried in so long. She wants to…

"I'm sorry," Hana chokes out, even though pale, silent Tara doesn't so much as look her way. "I'm sorry. This is all me, this is  _all me,_ you couldn't do anything. Amin-" She doesn't know who she's apologizing to anymore, Amin or Tara or herself, but the words are falling from her mouth before she can stop them. "I told you. You should've left me… I should've…"

_I should've died._

Wouldn't that be better? How many people has she killed so far? How many people has she condemned? More nameless Talon agents than she can count are now corpses, Genji is stranded somewhere in Korea, McCree is abandoned and wandering, Tracer is probably dying of worry, the old receptionist is dead, Amin too, Tara, they've all been…  _for just one person._

Tara is ignoring her. Tara's shoulders are hunched. Tara is still staring at Amin. Hana wants her to move. To get upset, like she usually does. Tara should blame her, as that's what Hana was expecting. Anything would be better than this, this numb acceptance-

Something dark steps out from the kitchen, the only movement in the black-and-white world. It's a black-robed figure with one glaringly white owl mask, holding a photo frame in one hand.

The way it just watches her, expecting her to move, as if it knows she couldn't possibly kill it. Tara… Tara doesn't even look up. She probably doesn't care anymore.

But Hana does. Her hand is shaking when she reaches for the gun. It hurts to bring it up. To aim with it.

She stares down the gun's shaking sight, and a fierce sort of assurance fills her. "He's not… allowed to hurt me," she rasps with her trembling voice, assuring Tara, even if she's not listening. " _Not allowed."_

She pulls the trigger.  _Bang._ And she waits for him to fall, like all the others.

He doesn't even react. He stands there still, this huge, hulking shadow in the ruined kitchen.

 _Oh._ Her hand drops to her side, the gun dangling uselessly from her fingers.  _I'm out of shots._

A sob is building in her throat, dry and painful; her mask falls and she's sniffing, hiccupping, trying to keep the tears off of her face, because she has  _no right to cry._

The shadow walks up to her.

The one honesty in this web of lies she has created is that  _Hana Song can't do anything._ McCree was right. She can't save anyone. She's been a dead weight on the world from the very beginning, back when she was living with that awful woman all the way to now, and the world has finally realized that. It's letting her go, to slip between the cracks, and fall.

Has she hit the bottom yet?

The Reaper knows this. Tara, dead-eyed as she watches Amin's remains, knows this. And Hana, with her useless gun and ability to play a stupid fucking game, finally, knows this as well.

_Too late._

She doesn't even have the time to close her eyes before the Reaper raises his gun. It comes crashing down, a black blur above her head. For an instant, pain sears through her forehead, and she thinks she can hear Tara yell something in the distance, but that's probably just another illusion. There is nothing.

_Nothing left._

* * *

Last piece of art: https://sta.sh/0axd1usvrxr

_First of all: I am so sorry._

_Secondly, I was reading through the reviews and became very, very sad. Not because any of you were mean or anything- you are all so kind, so wonderful, more than I deserve. I became sad because so many of you thought I was abandoning this story._

_I want to reassure all of you that I will never orphan a fic. I am finishing this goddamn story or I'm going to die trying. It is only a matter of when, not if._

_In a morbid kind of way I'm really looking forward to reading your reviews on this chapter. Thank you to all the people who followed me in absentia._

* * *

Translation Notes:

 **Tara** \- a given name that can generally mean 'Star' in many cultures.  
 **Amin** \- an Asian given name that means 'faithful, trustworthy.'  
 **Lee** – Second most common Korean surname; in English means 'shelter', specifically shelter from the wind and weather given by an object/person… fuck now I'm trying not to cry

Mierda- 'Fuck' in Spanish  
por un momento- 'for a moment' in Spanish

* * *

Timeline Notes:

I've fought to keep this story as 'could-be-made-canonical' as possible. Of course, because no definitive timestamps have been released for any event so far, I can't be accurate down to the year, but Tara and Amin's respective pasts do line up in the general timeline.

The Null Sector uprising in London happened seven years ago, according to canon lore, and within a year of that, Overwatch is abolished. The setting of my story is five years into the past, so the London Uprising would've been just two years ago in my story.

In canon lore, Null Sector has held many attacks before, with the London Uprising being the most recent, so I established for the purposes of my story that one of Null Sector's previous attacks had been in Seoul. This Seoul attack would be nine years ago according to my version of the events.

Why does Hana not mention this Null Sector attack, despite living in Korea? Tara is from Seoul, but Hana is from Busan, meaning that Tara would be much more affected by this attack. Also, Tara would've been two years older at that point- Hana would be too young to really realize what was going on, while Tara would've just reached the emotional maturity to understand what had just happened.

As Overwatch fell one or two years ago from the events in this story, it makes sense that at this point, Gabriel Reyes is already considered dead and is now the Reaper. WINSTON HAS NOT YET PRESSED THE RECALL BUTTON- TRACER, GENJI, AND ANA ARE ACTING INDEPENDANTLY OF THE RECALL.  **This will be further explained in later chapters.**

* * *

**=Amin's Backstory- skip if you already understand everything=**

If it wasn't made clear enough in the story, here is a thorough layout of Amin's past. It incorporates many canon locations and people.

Amin was an Omnic specially designed to serve in Null Sector (which is a robot supremacist group featured by the Uprising event within the actual game). She eventually left the organization by severing herself from the hivemind and quietly disappearing.

Amin traveled throughout Asia, mostly via warzones and desolate landscapes. At this time, anti-Omnic tensions ran high and Amin feared that she would never be able to find a home. Fortunately, while in the lonely mountains of Nepal, she came across a series of Omnic monasteries.

Run by an order of Omnic monks known as the Shambali (Zenyatta and Genji of Overwatch are a part of this group), these monasteries provided Amin a safe place to stay. The Shambali believed in something Amin had never come across before- Human-Omnic equality- and introduced her to the Iris, which they claimed saw humans and omnics as One. This is where she met many other Omnics that, while programmed for war, had either ran haywire or were separated from their armies, eventually being taken in by the Shambali. This includes one Genji Shimada.

At this point, Genji would've still been a part of Blackwatch. I say either he was sent to Nepal as a sort of convoy or perhaps on Angela's orders- either way, in my mind, this is where he first meets Zenyatta.

After finding her peace and reeducating herself, Amin leaves the Shambali, returning to her native country of Korea to settle loose ends. However, Korea is swept up in another Null Sector uprising upon Amin's arrival, and while Amin survives, much of Seoul does not. This is where she meets and picks up Tara- initially for survival purposes only, though she later grows to love the child. With the 4M1N serial code underneath her eye covered with a sticker that reads ET-03, she ventures out to civilization, Tara in tow.

(ET-03 is a serial code that I made up. It is canon that Overwatch's Omnics use serial codes as a sort of 'marker' (for example, Numbani's guard Omnics were OR15's) so I decided to give the Omnics in Korea a set 'civilian' serial code. 4M1N is also a fanon serial code.)

To provide for Tara, whose parents are long gone in the rubble of Seoul, Amin begins a career. At first, life is difficult, as many are unwilling to hire an Omnic. But things get easier- Amin has an eye for detail, and she eventually lands a secure job as an indoor designer. Tara, who began as a surly and damaged kid, grows up to be a very competitive and aggressive girl. They live together in piece at an apartment in Busan, on the sixth floor.

Then Hana shows up.

* * *

I will update again, and it'll take much less time than last time. I promise you.

Thank you for reading and thank you for the reviews- I read every one of them…

-FillerText


	22. haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what happens when everything has fallen apart?

_Genji delicately dabs the facepaint onto Hana's face, his body emanating a low humming sound that Hana has learned generally indicates focus and tension. The paintbrush hairs tickle, so badly, so even as she stifles a giggle her shoulders shake with silent laughter._

" _Hana, stop moving. Only half your whiskers are done," says Genji, his tone of voice so serious and..._ _ **Intense**_ _that Hana's cheeks puff out with a contained snort._

_Unfortunately this apparently distracts Genji, because his mechanical fingers twitch across Hana's face, dashing a trail of bright pink right across her nose._

_A squeak of laughter exhales from Hana's lungs like a mouse being stepped on. There's a moment of silence as Hana claps her hands over mouth, knowing that once she starts, she_ can't  _stop._

_They stare at each other for a moment. Then-_

_Too late. Neither of them can take the ridiculousness of the situation anymore._

_Genji hurls the paintbrush away, reeling back in his seat as he howls with autotuned laughter, while Hana holds her aching sides as she wheezes for breath. She fumbles for the mirror, Genji collapsed on the couch, enhanced lungs allowing him to giggle on without pause._

_Hana sees her face, painted with two lines, meant to resemble pink whiskers, on each cheek, with one extending into an involuntary stripe of paint right in the middle of her face. Her wheezing laughter redoubles._

" _GENJI, I SAID TO DRAW WHISKERS ON MY FACE, NOT TWO EQUAL SIGNS!"_

_Genji lifts his head from where lies sprawled. "Those are not equal signs. They would make terrible equal signs," he supplies helpfully._

" _That's right," Hana sniffs. She turns her head one way and other in the mirror, inspecting her reflection with exaggerated poise. "They're not good enough to be equal signs, and not good enough to be whiskers. What abominations have you created, you MONSTER!"_

_Hana throws down the mirror and tackles Genji, who puts a hand to her face and pushes, trying to get her off. All the while giggling like a madman, unaware that- he's just smearing pink paint all over Hana's face now- her cheeks hurt from smiling so much-_

" _Having fun?"_

_Everything freezes._

_Hana jumps back. Genji is stock-still, one arm reaching up to push away an invisible face. The couch has stopped moving underneath her. The air feels quieter._

_Time has frozen, and for some reason that makes sense._

After all, this is all a dream.

_She turns._

_Dollface Girl is back in all of her porcelain-skinned beauty, hair straight and sleek and properly trimmed. There's something on her face that Hana doesn't recognize from her previous dream- a pair of pink whiskers painted onto her face, perfectly done. Almost like tattoos._

_Like they're a_ part  _of her._

_Hana unconsciously reaches up to touch her face, at her own imperfect whiskers. Something clicks._

_She says, feeling stupid, "You're me."_

" _I'm more_ 'you' _than you will ever be," scoffs Dollface, tossing her hair. It feathers and falls perfectly back into place, like the feature of a shampoo commercial. "I'm what you_ could  _be. What you're failing to be."_

_And it's true. It's like Hana is looking into a mirror- a mirror that transforms its viewer into something else entirely. A flawless reflection of herself._

_But indignation takes hold. "Why would I want to be like you? You're…"_

_She hesitates, because this is not as easy as making fun of McCree. Dollface is obviously better looking than Hana. So perfect, so flawless, so-_

"… _fake."_

 _This doesn't bother Dollface at all. "Who cares? This is what people want. If you give it to them, they'll give you_ anything. _" The girl spins in an impeccable circle. Lands on her two feet and smirks at Hana. "But that's not what I'm here to talk about."_

_Dark brown eyes look into dark brown eyes, and a shiver runs down Hana's back._

"… _Whatever it is, I don't care. I don't want to know."_

_Dollface sighs. Her hands go to their hips and she shakes her head, painfully reminiscent of Mother's attitude whenever the woman was disappointed in Hana. "Oh, sweetie. You don't know anything," she mimics._

_That stings, but Hana doesn't contest it. She stays silent, brain half-frozen with all the angry comebacks she could throw back right now but just… can't. Anger is replaced with a quiet acceptance._

" _You're right." Hana leans over to slowly pick up the paintbrush from the floor, where it had left a pink splotch on the hardwood. "So what are you going to do about it?"_

_Hana's mirror narrows her eyes, those hands unmoving from those hips. Hana looks up from the brush, to stare down this reflection of herself again, a stony resignation beginning to settle in her stomach._

_Because this… is nice. Reliving the past, where everything was just right._

_The present doesn't hold anything for her. No family, no friends, no fans, no fortune, no future. She had thought she hit rock bottom when Genji disappeared, but she was wrong-_ _**this** _ _is rock bottom, where there is nothing and no one to hold onto but herself, and this mildly unsettling reflection of herself. Yes, Dollface- Dollface is-_

" _You're a construct of me. I created you. I_ control  _you. You're," and then she realizes again, dully, "you're DVA. And guess what? You can't make me go back. I don't want to."_

" _A construct of_ you.  _Who says?" Dollface- DVA- she shakes out her curls and tuts. "You're a construct of_ me.  _Something weak that showed up from being bullied all your life. You never stood up to anything, never fought, or even ran, just stayed there like a stupid fucking-"_

" _SHUT UP!" Hana stands. Something is ringing in her ears, a silent pressure building in her head. She feels her face contort with anger, with_ regret,  _and her voice is so brittle, even as it sounds so angry._

" _I_ _ **know.**_ "

_That's why Amin and Tara are gone._

_She feels like something is crushing in her chest in, like she's lying underneath a mountain. It builds, expands in her veins, and her skin itches with pain, because it feels like all this pressure is going to make her pop like a balloon. A solid mass of despair and regret that seeks escape, searches for an opening in Hana's tough, tough exterior._

_**Amin and Tara are gone.** _

_Hana inhales- the pressure builds- exhales- the pressure goes whooshing out. Into a broken sob. Tears sprinkle down her face like a gentle rain, and she's ashamed, even if the only witness to her tears is herself._

_DVA does not back down. Instead, she takes a step forward, her voice angrier. More forceful. She glares down at Hana, the sniveling rabbit who stands frozen in place even still._

" _Fight it. Don't give in. Don't you remember where we are?"_

**Where we are.  
.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.  
.**

The rush of Hana's senses returning to her body is accompanied by a falling sensation, as if she'd been drop-kicked, unconscious, off a plane. She sucks in a noisy breath, jerks upwards- upwards?- falls back down, her head slamming against the-

…the leather car seat.

She's lying on her side, in the back of a car. She shuts her eyes, takes shallow, rapid breaths- there's a swelling pain on her forehead, above her left eye, as if she'd been hit by something blunt.

_The butt of a giant shotgun._

"Chica! You're awake!"

The voice from the front seems maliciously glad. Hana shrinks back, into the cool leather of the seat; in the darkness she can just make out the purple sprigs of some woman's hair. It bobs as the woman turns in her seat, clasping her arms over the headrest to stare directly at Hana.

This woman- a Hispanic woman, most likely a foreigner, and built like a pixie- she's smiling brightly, but in a way that makes Hana shiver with apprehension. There is nothing warm about her expression. There is nothing welcoming about her voice. It is cold, fake, and sharp as a knife's edge. Her eyeshadow creates dark gradients around bright purple irises.

Seated next to her is the cowled man that had knocked Hana unconscious. He doesn't bother to turn, doesn't bother to acknowledge Hana's presence. His clawed gloves are wrapped, around the steering wheel of the car, creating an almost comical contrast between that which is normal and that which is creepy.

Judging from the darkness out the windows and the frigid air, Hana guesses that it is night. Her stomach sinks;  _how long was I out?_

The woman chatters on, unperturbed by the fact that she'd just  _kidnapped_ a girl. Her voice lilts and rolls with a Hispanic accent. "I'm Sombra. That is Reaper." She inclines her head towards the man. "Say hola, Reaper!"

He- Reaper- stays deathly silent. Sombra markedly rolls her eyes.

" _Lo siento._ He's a bit of a downer."

Hana clears her throat. It feels like trying to swallow sandpaper. Her  _voice_ sounds like she'd just swallowed sandpaper.

"Where are you taking me? To the Terrorists Around the World convention?"

Sombra stares at her for a moment, purple lips still pulled out into a pout. Then she throws her head back and laughs, the edges of her teeth glinting in the shadows.

"Ohhhhh, DVA. DVA, DVA, DVA." Her head lolls to the side, that smirking grin still affixed to her face. "You didn't show this much  _attitude_ in your stream. I thought you'd be a sniveling wimp. I'm glad to see that I'm wrong!"

"Well, I'm  _sorry_ that I made you glad about  _anything,_ " hisses DVA, who takes over in a flash when Hana reels in alarm. Because this woman… she knows… Just how long have they been watching her?

" _No te preocupes,_ 're not going to kill you. We're not even going to hurt you." Sombra leans forward in her seat; consequently, Hana edges away, trying to awkwardly wriggle into a sitting position- only to find that her hands are affixed together behind her back. "Well. Maybe just a  _teensy bit._ "

"I'm not anything special!" Hana yells this, throat tearing at the edges of her words. "You don't need me. I can't do shit." Handcuffs- her numb wrists can vaguely feel the restraints around them now, solid metal that can't be broken by someone like her.

Suddenly, in a cold rush of feeling, she wishes that McCree were here.

" _Chica,_ listen." Sombra taps the side of her head with one overlong fingernail, her voice scathing sarcastic. "Think about it for a moment. Do you really think  _I_ care? I'm just following or-"

Reaper hits the brakes with a sudden  _screeeeech,_  and Hana tumbles, sideways, into the seat in front of her. Her face slams against the leather back with an  _oof!_

Sombra, who had been facing Hana, is thrown back mid-sentence. Hana hears a similar squeak of surpriseas the woman tumbles back, hitting her head with a sharp smack against the dash.

The Reaper turns his head slightly towards Sombra.

" _Put on a goddamned seatbelt,"_ he growls drily, his voice the grind of gravel under tires, and Sombra raises an incredulous eyebrow at him.

"Wow,Reaps. That wasn't very  _nice._  I was  _talking_ to-"

" _Sombra. Basta."_

Hana has never wished to understand Spanish more in her life, as Sombra crinkles her nose and snips right back.

" _Reaps. Nada que he dicho era importante. Y ella estaba pidiendo…"_

Hana gives up her struggle to sit up straight and rests her head back down, Sombra still shooting off rapid Spanish from the front. Her dark curls fall in a circle around her head, like a halo. That throbbing pain above her eye becomes stronger still, especially with nothing else to focus on…

For the first time, Hana feels the warm trickles of blood webbed across her numb face, all extending from that one painful spot. Some of it has begun to dry, and is sticky against her mouth. She smacks her lips; it tastes of iron.

_I'm not going to die._

_They're not going to kill you_. McCree and Genji had both said that, but neither had sounded reassuring about it- something about their voices, their faces, told Hana that a fate worse than death was awaiting her, if she were captured. Genji thought he was good at lying, but he wasn't good enough. And McCree hadn't even made any pretenses at deception- he'd looked her in the eyes and told her, told her that she wasn't going to make it to Seoul.

_We're not going to kill you._

Sombra, this purple-haired terrorist, had been the scariest about it. A lazy smile sliding across her face as she regarded Hana, like a cat watches a rabbit.

Either Sombra's cutting Spanish is growing quieter, or Hana's hearing is fading. Exhaustion sets in her veins, exhaustion that dulls the constant pain ringing in her head. Her eyes fall closed, and as she gives in to the darkness, all she wants to do anymore is never wake up again.

* * *

"Hey. Hey. Wake up." Sombra snaps her fingers in front of Hana's face, but even though the Korean girl's face is obscured by the shadows, Sombra can tell that the girl won't be waking up anytime soon.

"Out like a light.  _Apaganda las luces,_ " she quips to Gabe, punctuated with an eye roll. She turns back around to settle in her seat, pointedly clipping in the seatbelt with a face like she'd just bit into a lemon.

Honestly? Sombra has mixed feelings about this entire operation.

She doesn't think of herself as evil. Evil doesn't exist- it's what the weak call the strong when the strong does as they wish, which is simply the natural order of things. And so there is nothing wrong with the strong, being Talon, doing as they wish with the weak, being this girl. DVA.

But the method they use to acquire agents- that irks her.  _Brainwashing,_ they call it. But that implies that something is being added, altered. Sombra would rather call it  _mindwiping._ Because the end products are always the same- one-dimensional versions of their previous selves, their minds having been less 'rewritten' and more of wiped clean.

It's difficult to pinpoint  _why_ Sombra dislikes it so much… it's  _cheap,_ is what it is, because the resulting agents are not people. People have a will, and if that will aligns with Talon's interests, then all the more power to Talon. When people are mindwiped, they are people no longer. They are simply weapons, weapons that can just as easily wipe out its owner as it does the owner's enemies.

 _Widowmaker is a ticking time bomb,_ Sombra muses. She's witnessed the silent, dead-eyed agent 'remember' things. Hints of her past life, and the emotions she felt with it. Sombra, with her invisibility cloak on, had even watched the stony woman stare out a Parisian window for a good two minutes during an operation in France. Staring at the rain as it fell over the distant Eiffel Tower.

She  _hates_ working with Widowmaker. At least Gabi has a little charm in how pissed off he is at everything and everyone, which entertains Sombra more than words can express.

Widowmaker is a blank slate trying to write itself.

Talon is being foolish, if they truly think converting these people into mindless killers will do them good in the end. They may be coldly logical. Calculating. In the end, they know nothing on how to truly manipulate a human being.

A little smile alights on Sombra's face, a smug grin that she knows everyone hates. Not that she cares. She doesn't need anyone but herself.

Herself and her 'friends.'

_That reminds me. I need to pay a visit to that Volskaya woman..._

* * *

So.

McCree is stranded in a foreign country, his only friend having run off to their demise. He'd stayed behind, claiming to be the voice of reason. And now, because of it, he is all alone.

A taxi shoots past him, missing his feet by mere inches. The gust of wind sends his hat flying off. It twirls in the air and lands behind him with a soft  _thump._ Jesse McCree does not move.

_Well, damn._

He'd watched her leave. Just stood there, giving up when she got too far, the words  _come back_ dying on his lips. He'd been very quiet and very still as that bright pink dash of her jacket disappeared down the street, standing there numbly as if they were strangers. As if they hadn't just shared a laugh, a brief moment of connection in the sea of cut ties that made up McCree's life.

 _That coulda damn well been the last time anyone sees her,_ he thinks dully. Until they brainwash her to be the second Widowmaker, of course.

Maybe he's grown clever over the years, smarter and better at handling emotions, but becoming smarter doesn't always mean he's become better at making the right decision. If there even is one, in a grey-stained world that wants only black and white. Three years ago, he'd have barreled after her without a second thought, his impending death becoming a mere passing thought.

The difference between then and now was that then, the concept of dying hadn't bother him. McCree, in his heart, had long since died with his Deadlock gang. But now? Now he has things to live for.  _People_ to live for. Blackwatch is gone, maybe, but save Gabriel Goddamned Reyes, its people remain.  _McCree_ remains.

He tips his head back, eyes closed, as he faces the darkening sky.

_Her life isn't any of my business._

_But-_

The thing  _is-_ He  _knows_ it isn't. But that doesn't make him _feel_  any better.

This has happened before. It's a startling moment of déjà vu for McCree, realizing that this feeling of emptiness slides perfectly into place somewhere in his heart, to the right of all the people he's left behind and to the left of all his regrets. Familiar- far too familiar.

And in situations like this, there is only one way McCree has ever handled things without blowing his brains out.

Luckily for him, Korea is no stranger to alcohol. It's the country with the highest average blood-alcohol levels in the world, beating out even the Russians with their near suicidal drinking culture. As McCree wanders aimlessly through the flickering streets, cigarillo clenched between his teeth, he sees more than one bar advertising cheap liquor in a language he can't understand.

It's okay. McCree isn't a picky man by any means. As long as it's strong, cheap, and not horse piss, he'll take it.

He eventually settles on the seediest one of the bunch, one with a flickering neon sign that illustrates a dragon wrapping around indecipherable Korean letters. It looks exactly like a squatting place for gangsters, so what the hell- at least he won't have to deal with any more civilians. The criminal underworld has always been his real home.

And true to his initial impression of the place, right by the door, crammed into eight tiny chairs are eight rather large men who immediately swivel to stare at the newcomer. Goldfish, sparrows, and large Oriental dragon tattoos jump out immediately from their arms.

He gives them a momentary stare- a challenge- before heading on his way. Maybe it's McCree's race, or more likely his big fucking cowboy hat, but they stare right back, all the way until McCree sits down.

But as it is with most gangsters, they don't pick an unnecessary fight. McCree watches them turn back to their game of Chinese checkers in relative peace.

That leaves McCree free to get totally shitfaced.

He turns to the bartender, scratching at his mustache. "Gimme something strong. Er-" He waggles his fingers in the air, enunciating clearer: "Strong. Alcohol. I. Have. Money."

The bartender gives him a strange look, shrugs, and lazily complies, with an air of  _I've seen stranger things_. He sets a transparent green bottle on the table, one plastered with a sticker of a dragon, along with two shot glasses. All in a neat little row. As if McCree is expecting company.

 _Really heavy with this entire dragon theme, eh?_ He pours one out. The transparent liquid looks like water, but one sniff tells him it's definitely alcohol- most likely some sort of grain based liquor, if he recalls his Asian drinks correctly. He tosses it back- the sting hits the back of his throat and his nose like the smoke and flames from that Talon bomb, but McCree is no novice to drinking and downs the thing like a champ. There's one thing he's good at.

The taste is rough, unrefined, and heavy with ethanol. It's not whiskey but it'll do the trick.

He downs another. Another. The wizened bartender eyes his rapid drinking with narrowed eyes, before losing interest and wandering off to the other side of the bar. That's fine with him. McCree's used to drinking without company.

He can almost hear Angie screaming at him, from his right,  _Jesse, you stop drinking this instant! Cirrhosis of the liver can be fatal-_

"Gee, sorry, Doc," McCree mumbles to himself, heat starting to rise to his face.

He'd met some real shady characters at the bar back home. Fought against some of them, got drunk with some of them, or usually some combination of both. He drank to loosen up, have a good time. He'd never done this before- drinking to forget. Drinking like he's dying of thirst.

He's on his fourth shot when he hears another feminine voice, this time from his left.

" _Ahnyonghaseo, cowboy?"_

A lady sits down on the stool next to him. She's wearing a black dress, one that reminds McCree of rainy funerals and black umbrellas. It's a slinky, low-cut thing obviously meant to be sexy, but McCree can't help but drunkenly recall Angie's devastated face when he looks at it. Swiss accent thick in his ears.

" _Jesse… if Ana isn't here to keep Overwatch together, who will?"_

McCree hadn't even thought of that. He had been thinking,  _what will I tell Fareeha?_

The woman will not be dissuaded by McCree's lack of response. " _Mohanen kuya, mm?"_ She leans her face on her hand, raises an eyebrow at him. " _Mur sengak hanenkuya?"_

"I'm a stupid foreigner, sorry," slurs McCree. "Korean ain't my strong suit." He gulps down the rest of the glass and peers at the woman. A pointed chin, round eyes made sharp by thick eyeliner. Hair pulled back into an elaborate knot on her head. Lips that pop as red as they come. She's dressed to impress, and more likely, dressed to pick up men at a bar.

"Oh." Those red lips purse in displeasure, and her words are thick with an accent. "It's okay. I speak English as well."

Maybe it's because he's rather tipsy, but it's only then that he realizes the woman's arm has a dragon tattoo snaking down its side.

He narrows his eyes, pouring himself another glass. If the dragon curled all the way around her arm in a spiral, then she'd probably be a Shimada, which… wouldn't be hard to believe. The Shimada did dealings with all of Japan's neighbors- Korea, China, Russia, and more, though McCree's never had one try and seduce him.

But it doesn't- it's a wavy streak going straight down the length of her arm, almost as red as her lipstick. So, what does that make her?

"Hey," he blurts out, sloshing the glass in her general direction. A few droplets of the drink spill over onto his glove. "Which gang are you from?"

The woman's eyes flare for a millisecond- probably out of shock, because McCree is pretty surprised himself. What on earth had possessed him to say something so stupid?

 _Oh, well._ He downs the glass, slams it back down on the table.  _I'm drunk. Who cares._

For a moment, he thinks he's gone too far too fast. The woman draws back, eyes narrowed. The men in the corner haven't noticed what he's said, apparently, but judging from their tattoos, they hang with whatever crowd this woman belongs to. If things get messy, McCree will be outnumbered nine to one. Ten to one, if the bartender is in on the gang too.

Good enough, odds, actually. Maybe the alcohol in his system is boosting his confidence, but McCree doesn't feel a smidgeon of fear. Staying alive is second priority right now.

So, he grins at her, adjusts his hat. Pulls out his most charming line from the deep recesses of his mind, lays honeyed charm thick on his words. One guaranteed to hook in any gangster woman-

"I… have a lot of money to spend."

Another moment of silence. The woman appraises him with an unmoving stare. One so staunch that McCree's gaze flickers to the men in the corner, watching for any sign of movement. His hand hovers over his side, where Peacekeeper is strapped, hidden.

Then-

She leans forward again, interest sparking her eyes. Her voice is brisker, more businesslike. "Who is asking?"

… _Oho._

"Someone who is lookin' for a lil' something." Things are getting hazy around the edge of his vision, but McCree has high enough of an alcohol tolerance to trust himself with a gun, if things go that wrong. Not that they will- he's  _McCree,_ after all, and nine armed gangsters are nothing to him at this point. Or perhaps that's just the alcohol speaking.

He continues brashly with his bargaining. "A gang could help with that, right, miss?"

A plan is beginning to unfurl in his mind. An uncertain plan, one that will almost definitely not work, as well as probably get him killed. Under normal circumstances, it's not one he'd ever consider. Rationally speaking, the risks are higher than the rewards, and even a gambling man like McCree wouldn't take such terrible odds.

But it leads straight to retrieving a certain Hana Song, so all of a sudden those odds seem quite acceptable.

"Depends on what a man is looking for." Gangster Woman taps her long, neatly clipped nails against the bar, voice strangely seductive. "We have all the cocaine a man could ever need,  _baekin._ "

"Charming." McCree finishes off the drink by swigging it straight from the bottle. He sets it down with a contented sigh, running a grimy sleeve over his mouth. "But that ain't what I'm looking for."

Apparently this throws Gangster Woman off, because she arches a manicured eyebrow. "Then what is it that you are trying to find?"

_Contentment._

_An adventure._

_**Hana Song.** _

"A person. Who's the highest-rankin' member of your little thing here?" drawls McCree, and he feels a swell of confidence that he should probably attribute to all the alcohol in his system. Instead, he takes it as a sign.

A sign of,  _why don't we take this further?_

So he attacks her front with further determination. "I mean, I gotta talk to whoever's in charge, Miss…?"

The woman drums her fingers on the bar table. "Miss Sujin. And I would recommend you just talk through your business with me. We- the Ssang Kal- are not very active in Busan." Her drumming becomes faster, and annoyance shines clear on her face and through her accented words. "Therefore the management isn't very…  _disciplined._ "

"Oh really?" McCree leans forward, propping his elbows on the bar. He grins at Sujin. "Go on."

Sujin stares imperiously down at him. It's remarkable how quickly her demeanor has changed, from sultry to professional in an instant.

Her words are sharp as flint. "He… all he does is go around with his band of cronies, get drunk at local bars, and flirt with strange women. In fact…" and her voice grows amused- "he is rather a lot like you."

McCree chuckles at that. "No ma'am. I ain't got no cronies. Other than that… maybe."

Sujin clucks her tongue, crossing slender arms. "You came at the wrong time, Mister McCree. There is a new boss in town, trying to out the old order. I suggest, instead of taking you to the higher-ups-"

McCree cuts her off. Because he's run with a gang long enough to know that once he takes a situation like this to anything lower than a section head, it will never move up and never get finished.

"Listen, lady." His voice is thickly honeyed, sliding smooth through the air. "I don't care  _who_ I'm dealin' with, as long as they're up there with the other lead's, you hear me? This ain't somethin' the likes of you can handle- no offense intended, of course. That conflict isn't any of your business.  _Money_ is your business. And I have plenty to spare."

Sujin sits there, like a statue, looking upon McCree with a face equal parts impassive and impartial. But he can read the twitch in her right eyelid, the curling of her toes, and he knows that she's finally taking him seriously.

Finally, she sighs. "Alright. Follow me."

She sweeps her dress up as she stands. And the eight men in the corner rise with her, silently pushing away their chess pieces into a Ziploc bag.

The buzz of  _soju_ in McCree's veins dies a little as he stands, and with it, his confidence. Just slightly.

_What the actual hell have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

_**Translation Notes:** _

_**Spanish** _

_Lo siento-_ Sorry  
 _No te preocupes-_ Don't worry  
 _Chica-_ Girl  
 _Basta-_ Stop  
 _"Reaps. Nada que he dicho era importante. Y ella estaba pidiendo…" –_ "Reaps. Nothing I said was important. And she was asking…"  
 _Apaganda las luces-_ Turning out the lights (Sombra's ult line)

 _ **Korean  
**_ " _Mohanen kuya, mm?"- "What are you doing, mm?"  
_ " _Mur sengak hanenkuya?" – "What are you thinking (about)?"_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:  
> School has started! Good luck to everyone who is in school!
> 
> As a side note, DVA isn't all evil, and Hana isn't all good. They are aspects of her, personalities- different, not necessarily higher or lower in moral standing. Also, Hana isn't necessarily the 'original' personality. This is a concept I'll explore more later.
> 
> We went from talking about two Overwatch characters (McCree and Hana) to soon, about six :)))))) Things are about to become chaotic. In a very good way.
> 
> Hopefully you enjoyed that extra long chapter, and I look forward to all your reviews on this chapter!
> 
> -FillerText


	23. Chapter 23

"We're here."

Sombra pushes the car door open and steps out, framed by the beacon of light that swings her way. She winks at the spotlight, hand fluttering in a mockery of little Tracer's salute. The spotlight pauses on her- and then swings steadily away.

Reaper exits the black sedan at the other side, his long coat fluttering dramatically in the wind. The coastline of Busan, especially at this one spot, is constantly being buffeted by gusts of sea air, blowing straight into the peninsula. Sombra likes it- the smell of salt, the glittering waters extending far below them. If she looks directly over the ocean, at the very edge of the cliff, it feels like she's standing at the end of the world.

"A Watchpoint: Talon to match Watchpoint: Gibraltar," she muses. Then she looks towards the back of the car.

Sombra clears her throat. "We're  _here_ ," she repeats, miffed.

DVA-  _Hana Song,_  whatever- she doesn't respond.

Sombra doesn't weigh much more than Hana, so dragging the unconscious girl out of the car takes all of her strength. The hood of her pink jacket catches on everything- her own cuffs, the seatbelt, Sombra's nails- as if it's physically resisting her efforts. Reaper watches impassively from the side, his arms crossed, like a massive, scowling…  _useless_ shadow.

"A little-  _help_ \- here?" Sombra growls, before dropping Hana onto the concrete road like a sack of potatoes. The girl hits her head on the ground a little harder than is safe before flopping limply to rest, but Sombra is past caring about that. Her main concern is… that if her makeup gets ruined by this little excursion, she's going to kill somebody. Literally no-one understands how long it takes for her to get eyeshadow this perfect.

… _Maybe Widowmaker._ Any girl could tell that the Frenchwoman's dark makeup was drawn with a graceful hand. But she's about as likely to share her makeup secrets as it is for Reaper to start singing  _Don't Fear the Reaper._

Pissing her off more than the fact that her flawless eyebrows are at risk is that Reaper continues staring, as if he's waiting for Sombra to pick the girl back up and lug her all the way to the building.

Sombra straightens out her hair, her nails. The ocean wind might feel nice  _now,_  but give it a couple minutes and it'll be freezing. "Well?" she snips, scowling at Reaper. She adopts his arms-crossed pose, tilts her chin up. "Between the little Spanish woman and the  _grande_ mass of muscles and edginess, who d'you think is better suited to carrying her?

" _I can't_ ," Reaper states shortly. His thickly muscled arms remain crossed, gates barring a closed-off body.  _"You do it._ "

She scoffs in his direction, flipping back a lock of purple hair. It falls against her eyes, which have been a bright purple ever since that one mod operation in 0'6. "Okaaaaay, Gabe. What is this about? Is it because I messed up with that SPECTR classification? Amon or Aman or whatever her name was? It was an innocent mistake, stop being so selfish-"

" _It blew itself up."_

Reaper is slowly getting irritated, Sombra can tell, even though it's really Sombra that should be getting angry. They have a deal going on- Sombra takes care of the paper trail so long as Reaper does the heavy lifting. She's not some sort of  _blue-collar worker,_ dammit.

She toes the ground, voice sarcastic. "Yes, yes, she self-destructed in an attempt to bring you down. Sure _._ How  _noble._ You're saying you got hurt? So you bitch about having to carry a little weight, eh?"

Every word seems to be causing Reaps physical pain, which is… which is normal, really; he doesn't hide at all that Sombra's voice annoys him more than that of a dying cat, but today it's even more so than usual. As he shifts from metal-toed boot to metal-toed boot, Sombra has the good grace to fall silent.

" _When a target is in little pieces,"_ he finally grinds out,  _"I can't feed."_

Oh.

Sombra blinks at the monster in front of her, his shoulders wisping angrily as he stares her down. And even though he stands a solid head above her, his mask gleaming down with a silent sort of menace, she feels a prick of sorry.

It's easy to forget that the people she works with aren't quite that-  _people._ The first time she'd met Reaper, Sombra had locked herself into her room immediately afterwards for three days straight, burning with that signature hacker's curiosity as to who this man was.

Over a thousand caffeine-fueled encryption key cracks and backlog IP traces later, she had found her answer: Reaper was the recently deceased Gabriel Reyes, division commander of Blackwatch. Now romping with terrorists he'd once personally shot down, like he'd always belonged with them.

And maybe he has. Who knows what happened in the darker corners of Overwatch's closet?

Oh, of course,  _Sombra_ does, but she doesn't know shit about anything that's not recorded somewhere on a computer… namely, the finer points of Reyes and Golden Boy Morrison's relationship. She knew of the general dissent between the two grumpy old men- who didn't?- but to find out that he'd come back from the dead, well, that was just between her and Gabe.

She'd felt quite satisfied with herself, leaning back as she chugged down a mug of cold espresso. This was obviously something that someone out there, most likely Talon itself, was trying to keep very much on the down-low. Of course, to Sombra, it's just an interesting tidbit of information. A challenge.

_Maybe a bit of leverage, in case they figure out I'm not exactly working for them._

And she'd forgotten that Gabriel Reyes is no longer a human that breathes, generates heat, and eats. He is the Reaper now, and though Sombra doesn't completely understand how his new body works, the one thing she knows is that he doesn't eat conventional food. He has no need for rations. When the Reaper kills, he absorbs the energy of his victims.

The rumors say that the Reaper feeds off death, but that isn't true at all. He feeds off life, or the remnants of it that cling to dead bodies. She'd seen Omnic and human corpses alike litter the ground, completely withered away. The energy he derives from them always seem to be the same.

But it's been a solid two weeks since Reaper has killed anyone, Sombra realizes suddenly. Talon agents don't eat together, don't sleep together- they're much too wary for that- and so she'd not once thought about how Reaper was doing, physically. What was the saying?  _Out of sight, out of mind._

Amin, the SPECTR Omnic, had blown herself up- probably in a last, valiant attempt to rid the world of Reaper, and almost certainly having not known that Reaper  _needed_ her, dead but whole, for his next feeding.

Therefore, Sombra pieces together, what Reaps is implying now is that he'll literally start devouring their precious prey's life energy if he gets too close to her.

And not just too close to Hana.  _Sombra,_ too. She's alive, too… though not many people like that fact.

Something twists in her gut. Not fear. She refuses to believe that it's fear.  _There is nothing scary about this grumpy old man. It's just- an involuntary reaction. Maybe disgust._ Probably _disgust._

She covers for her uncertainty with an overly dramatic sigh.

"Okay, okay," she grumbles, hooking her arms underneath the girl's and heaving her limp body up. She wrinkles her nose in distaste as the girl's head lolls sideways, exposing the spiderweb of blood running down a pale, wan face.  _Her eyelashes are so long._ "I got it. But you owe me next time."

Reaps doesn't answer. Just turns around and begins tromping across the parking lot, towards the stony exterior of the Talon base.

Sombra sighs, her thermoptic-camouflage-sheathed arms already beginning to ache under Hana Song's weight.  _Some thanks would be appreciated._

Sometimes, being a terrorist can be such a  _bore._

* * *

"We're here."

Sujin pushes the car door open and steps out, framed by the scattering of blinking neon lights around them, from letters to signs to street lights. She turns to peer at McCree, who fumbles for the door.

McCree exits the black sedan at the other side, his hat nearly blowing off again in the wind. He's not sure whether the wind is from Korea's naturally gusty lands, or the miniature torrents of air being created by the thousands of hovercars zipping this way and that around him.

 _I don't much like it,_ he thinks as he presses a hand to the Stetson on his head to keep it from being stolen by the breeze. The glove is still slightly damp from spilled soju.

His metallic arm swings limply at his side- he'd cut the nerves with a pair of borrowed pliers, and it's only mildly functional. Hopefully that won't impede him too much.

They've stopped at an apartment building, one that is noticeably dingier than Amin's. He takes a deep, desperate breath in the open air- he'd been nearly squeezed to death by the eight men from the bar sitting around him, packed like sardines in a can.

For some reason, it stinks strongly of booze, especially for a housing development. McCree scrunches up his nose, a frown growing on his face, and Sujin echoes that reaction.

"I don't care much for this place," she says. She waves a hand in front of her nose and coughs. "It gets more vile every passing year, I swear it…"

Boss Jehovah, they called him. Runner of the South American chapter of Deadlock, or so he claimed. The truth is, Deadlock's upper ranks were a twisty turny maze of ladders that all led straight up to someone nobody really knew, and it was hard to figure out who outranked who. Mostly, that was decided by equally twisty and turny duels.

But McCree had taken Jehovah's word for it (he would be dead otherwise) and even visited the man's house once- a sprawling mass of hardwoods and creaking lanterns right in the middle of New Mexico, expensively built, but looking like it had been put together with two left hands.

In comparison, this apartment complex… this doesn't resemble a local gang leader's hideout at all, if the Ssang Kal is as big as McCree recalled it to be.

His thoughts must be apparent on his face, because Sujin answers them. "This is one of Seon's floozy's houses," she says with incredible distaste. "Nothing of importance lives here, I assure you. It's just, he's here often, so…" Sujin trails off, and her face softens. "Him and that  _girl._ "

"Girl?" McCree's stomach turns a little as he follows Sujin towards the building. If he recalls one of Jehovah's more unsavory habits...

Well. The life of a gang leader is a stressful one, and one way to take out anger on someone without fear of retribution is picking on someone weak. Something that has no chance of getting even. The sick. The mothers. A child. _Easy targets._

It had even been him, once. And that's why Jehovah is a pile of bones in a shallow grave somewhere in Texas.

_He's lucky I buried 'im at all._

Sujin clacks up to the elevator, and waits a solid twenty seconds for everyone to file in and get situated- McCree and the eight gangsters- before she lets the doors close. The elevator trembles so much that McCree feels dizzy, through his alcohol-dulled senses, as they rattle slowly upwards.

It usually takes around thirty-forty minutes for McCree to really feel the effects of drinking- when his vision starts doing backflips and his stomach does even faster ones. In other words, he has thirty-forty minutes before he's completely  _wasted._ Thirty-forty minutes to deal with a foreign gang and its boss.

Great.

" _I got this,"_  he mutters underneath his breath.

They reach the correct floor and shuffle out. The hair on the back of McCree's neck raises at the sudden stench of cigarette smoke, in combination with the smell of ethanol.

"He won't be expecting you, by the way," says Sujin abruptly. "So be  _tactful._ "

"Why didn't you just call 'im?" asks McCree drily as he trails behind her. The entire building is strangely silent. "Could save a lot of hass-"

"Mr. Seon is not the kind of man who answers his calls. There would've been no point. Especially with how paranoid he's become, what with Mr. Chamseh on his heels and everything."

That perks McCree's interest. He adjusts his hat to fit more securely on his head. "Mr. Chamseh?"

"Yes. I already told you about him. Supposedly he and a gang of his men are trying to take down the chapter… or, take  _over_ the chapter. Sending my lovely boss scurrying like the fat rat he is." She lights a slender cigarette as she walks right past a  _NO SMOKING_ sign nailed to the wall. Her voice is vaguely disinterested. "Not that it matters. Seon, Chamseh, they're all the same."

"Awful loyal, aren'tcha."

"To myself, yes."

Sujin pauses in front of a door that is already slightly opened. The door number has long since peeled off the wood, but as far as McCree can tell from her distasteful sniff, apparently she recognizes it.

"Here we are. Ladies first."

She sweeps her hand to the door in a mockery of chivalry, while the other thugs rumble in quiet laughter. McCree takes it in stride, tipping his hat with a suave little smile, and presses a hand to the door.

It swings open with a quiet  _creak,_ opening to…

_...nobody. There's nothing here. What the hell?_

Well, not quite  _nothing._ There's a mess of empty bottles and  _El Dorados_ chip bags on the ground, scattered loosely about an overflowing trash bag. Bowls of instant ramen stands in towering piles in the corners of the room. Someone with obviously too much time on their hands has stacked empty green soda bottles into a giant pyramid, which lines the walls. The only thing that is remarkable about the place at all is a giant computer shoved into a corner, a contraption of wires and whizzing disks that looks homemade. A chair decorated with a single pink bunny sticker sits empty in front of it.

There's also the blood.

He hadn't noticed it at first, as he gingerly stepped over bits of broken glass and bright orange chip fragments. The floor was such a disaster zone that its maroon-colored splotches are half-covered in debris. There was a streak of it going across the floor, heading directly towards the balcony.

A prickle of uneasiness jolts down his spine as he bends over to clear a patch of the floor. There's a photo on the ground, of a smiling woman, man, and a little girl- the girl's face is blotted out with a scribble of marker, it all feels so  _strange-_

 _Abuse._ Everything about this apartment screams that its occupants were  _abused,_ and McCree swears a silent oath under his breath. Something about this place makes his hackles rise in a way that reminds him of walking in on one of Gabe and Morrison's arguments- as if he's intruding on a very dark secret.

"What the hell," he spits. McCree swings his gaze towards Sujin, who's standing open-mouthed at the doorway, the cigarette half-raised to her lips. "What the hell is all this?"

"I- I have no idea," she mutters, clacking forward on those stiletto heels to crouch by the largest splatter of blood. "The woman- she should still be here-"

"Did your Seon guy do this?" A strange bubble of anger bursts in side of him. First Hana, then Tara, now this poor, anonymous family. He's laid witness to so many families get torn up recently, and he's helped absolutely none of them.

His own papa had done something like this, once upon a time. McCree touches a gloved finger to Peacekeeper, a frown narrowing his eyes.

Sujin surveys him with creased eyebrows, her face shadowed in the backlight of the single bulb screwed into the ceiling. "Perhaps. I do not know. Maybe Chamseh-nim has come for him with his gang," she murmurs. "They say his group numbers in the dozens. They could've overpowered Seon's lackeys-"

"I'd be glad," he snarls, standing up straight. His calm demeanor is slipping, frustration shining raw beneath the surface. He's sick of running in circles. With every passing second, Hana is further entangled in the spider's web.

 _I have thirty-forty minutes._ "Where d'you think he is now?"

Sujin stands up as well, the eight men gingerly entering the room. "Is it not clear that we are, ah, too  _busy_ to help you right now?" she asks incredulously. A hint of sarcasm creeps into her voice. "Your opinion of the Ssang Kal's services is terribly high, Mr.  _Cowboy._ "

"I don't need shit from your services." McCree pinches the bridge of his nose, irritation beginning to grate on his nerves. "I just need-"

- _fuck this-_

"Yer on Talon's payroll, aren'tcha?"

There! He'd said it. He'd said the  _one_ thing that he wasn't going to say to anyone but the boss, and now he was damn well going to regret it.

Three, two, one- nine different guns  _chak-chak_ into place, all pointing at McCree's head, without an ounce of hesitation.

Sujin's gun is one of them. She wields a little black peashooter, really, its delicate barrel concentrating on McCree's forehead. "How," she begins, voice concrete-hard, "how- what are you-"

"Little lady, I know a lot more about how things go than you lot of thugs," he drawls, fluttering his hands in a half-hearted  _my hands are up._

He isn't even lying. Years of Blackwatch has conditioned him into assuming that all and any prominent gangs in an area also occupied by an even larger, more dangerous organization is being paid off by the organization, if not outright working for them. If the country is an ecosystem, then a gang and Talon are a snake and a coyote competing for top predator- and only one can take over.

Instead of turning the situation into a bloodbath, all Talon has to do is put some hands in deep pockets and slap that money onto any rising tensions like a big fucking bandaid. Money solves everything in the underworld.

In  _McCree's_ world.

"Who sent you?" asks Sujin, voice soft and dangerous. "if you're part of another gang, you won't be getting home alive. I swear it."

"That ain't the best way to get answers. If I were in a gang, my only option'd be to lie," he corrects smoothly much to Sujin's chagrin. "Puttin'  _that_ aside-" and McCree smiles, because smiling makes you the one who isn't scared- "I'm not a part of any gang, 'scuse me. I just want to talk to Talon is all."

McCree keeps his tone light and conversational. He can tell that the men surrounding Sujin are wavering, though she herself may not be.

"So you want to talk to Seon because-"

"-because he has information that you certainly do not have, missy. Havin' a direct pipeline to Talon and all." Peacekeeper is a cool weight at his hip, begging to be unleashed, but McCree pushes the swirling rage of the Deadeye down.  _I have this under control._

Commander had told him, years ago, that one day he'll become indifferent to the bloodsoaked gloves that he wears on his hands. That the amount of lives Peacekeeper has taken will hold no weight at all, and the gun will become just another tool-  _she's deadly, for sure, but she only has that sentimental value because you yourself are sentimental. I don't name my guns, Cree. And neither do any of my damn best agents._

A gloved finger shoved into McCree's chest.  _You're one of 'em._

Years later, McCree's proving Gabriel Reyes wrong. Because even now, killing drives an itch in his hands that won't go away.

It'd be simple enough to bring down the six members, reload with a roll, fire off two more times, leaving Sujin the only one alive. Holding her at gunpoint as she tracks down Seon for him. Sujin may be a drug dealer, but that doesn't mean she can overpower someone like McCree- even when his vision goes blurry and disoriented from the Deadeye.

But there's a slight widen of Sujin's thickly lined eyes- silent but heavy breaths moving the gang's chests up and down, up and down- they're  _frightened_ of McCree, because of his connection to Talon, and that says a lot about the Ssang Kal's relationship with the terrorist organization.

Fear makes people vulnerable, and McCree absolutely hates hurting those who are vulnerable.  _Aw, c'mon guys._ The weight of Peacekeeper seems to grow.  _Just put down your goddamn guns._

"It's ok, Talon doesn't have anythin' against me," he lies. "If anything, they'll be pleased-"  _because I'm being dropped straight into their lap-_ "and all I want is a talk."

"A talk about-"

McCree waggles his finger.  _"Nuh-uh._ Don't go askin' any questions. It's a  _talk._ Are you taking me to Seon or no?"

He sees the gangsters, their guns still hovering in the air, glance at Sujin, waiting for a cue that never comes. Her gun stays resolutely pointed at McCree, her red-painted lips pressed together into a line.

Fire prickles up-and-down his living arm. Jesse McCree has only so much pity to spare.

_Okay then._

He sighs, and reaches for Peacekeeper.

 

* * *

She sits in her swiveling chair, sipping her espresso as she stares blankly at her holoscreen. Two days of being gone, and all her contacts just blow up like mines gone unattended.

_What a mess. This will take ages to sort through._

Reaper appears behind her more quietly than he should be able. Even without turning around, she can feel the freezing cold emanating from him, like an open refrigerator. The sound of his breathing- yes, she knows it's a bit counterintuitive- it sounds like someone constantly rubbing brass with sandpaper, slowly. She ignores him, fingers clicking away at the holoscreen.

His baritone does its usual deep growl. " _Sombra. We have new orders."_

"Fuck the orders. I'm busy!" she scoffs, fingers scrambling to shoot message off of message. "Hopefully you can see that." She gestures with curling fingers at the holoscreen, at the quickly scrolling wall of green text. "Dying didn't ruin your eyes?"

" _I don't_ care  _if you're busy,"_ growls Reaper. He swipes at the power button on her computer, nearly hits it before Sombra swats his claws away with an irritated  _hey!_

"Look here, Gabi! Look at this." She swivels around to face the ghost himself, jabbing at the screen. At his unimpressed reaction (read: simply standing there like a statue), she begins to hotly explain. "You see these usernames? Do you know who these people are?"

" _The orders are-"_

" _Snow._ ," Sombra reads off the screen. She whips around to glare at Reaper. "Arms dealer from Siberia.  _Allsoulz11,_ leader of a Moroccan militia. J-F-B-1-7-5- one of the last Null Sector divisions still active in China.  _DeusForMachina_ \- a.k.a. Asuna Winchester, president of  _Kosovo._  These are all very important  _friends_ of mine."

Not that Reaper understands. Nobody in Talon understands. It's all about Talon's will this, Talon's will that- it's the same thing again and again, boring, so boring, and if there's one thing Sombra can't stand, it's being bored.

" _Friends,"_ Reaper intones dryly.  _"Your 'friends' all want to kill you."_

" _¿A quién le importa?_ " Sombra swivels back to face the screen; three different people are trying to secure eight different arms deals with her at once. Impatience grows like a weed in her system. "We benefit from each other. That is the very definition of friendship."

" _You need a dictionary."_

"Ach, no need. I-" Her mind blanks.

_Wait._

Her ears automatically go through a feedback loop, re-processing the information she had just gathered from the past five seconds.

_I… heard correctly._

She turns her head incredulously. " _El Segador…_ Did you just make a  _joke?_ "

It's as if someone turned a switch on Reaper, turning him to Mute once again. Sombra scoffs, a smirk growing on her face despite herself.

"I'm rubbing off on you.  _Mios Dios…_ You're scaring me, Reaper."

" _They need you to talk to the girl,"_ Reaper says tonelessly. His mask lifts a little in the hollow of his hood, starkly white against the black cloth.  _"She complies with orders, or she dies."_

 _Ugh._ More busy work from Talon, the slave driver. "Tell Maddie to do it. She's a trustworthy agent."  _I mean, she could've shot me at least four different times in Colombia, but never even tried… unlike poor Roberto._

" _Maddie isn't even her real name._ "

"And Sombra isn't mine, and Reaper isn't yours- what else is new. Why don't  _you_ go tell the poor little girlie about  _las consecuencias_?" she asks with her Hispanic lilt, sharply smirking.

His voice is casually dark. " _Oh, I_ will. _If she doesn't listen."_

Reaper turns and leaves, metal boots stomping on ground like dull cymbals. Sombra watches him go, that sharp smirk turning into a sharper scowl.

A talk with the girl.

That's just Reaper's thinly veiled way of saying,  _if you can't get through Hana Song with words, then I will get through her with pliers, brass knuckles, and kicks to the head. Make her obedient one way or the other, and then the medication starts._

 _Aah, que dilema._ Sombra kicks off the side of the table, sending the swivel chair spinning.  _Squeak, squeak, squeak-_ the chair creaks with every twist, like a chorus of mice.

She's been so busy lately, negotiating and keeping up with all the latest news. Monitoring all these things, it's a one-woman job. There's no one to watch  _this_ chica's back. Sombra is on her own.

And, to put it simply, she likes it that way. She knows she'll never change. But  _still..._ being in Talon is so much goddamn  _work._

The room spins around her in a lazy circle. Wall- poster -computer -wall- poster- computer-

_...A talk with the girl._

 

* * *

_Translation Notes:_

" _¿A quién le importa? –_ "Who cares?"

 _El Segador-_ The Reaper

 _Que dilema-_ What a dilemma

 _Mios dios-_ My god

 _las consecuencias-_ the consequences

* * *

_Cultural Notes:  
On average, a South Korean will drink 13.7 shots of liquor a week- twice as much as the Russians and four times more than the U.S. This unhealthy culture of drink fast, get drunk fast has been a major problem for the country in terms of health- but has turned bars into booming businesses, setting liquor stores everywhere. And McCree has no problem taking advantage of that._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Oh boy oh boy, Talon finally has a hold of Hana and things aren't looking so good. Luckily, McCree has found a way to locate Talon's base of operations in Korea- by going straight through the gang that had once extorted thousands of dollars from Hana… fate is a cruel mistress, no?
> 
> I refuse to believe that Sombra and Reaper are two-dimensional 'evil for evil's sake' characters. You'll probably sense that as we go on.
> 
> On a side note… I love you all. I can't believe how many people read this story now, and you probably have no idea how happy that makes me- that, from looking at the stats, hundreds of people out there are actually enjoying themselves and being happy because of something I did.
> 
> Thank you to all commenters and followers; I am looking forward to your reviews on this chapter!
> 
> -FillerText


	24. gloomy sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warnings for dark themes. I don't mean dark as in guts, blood, and gore, but more of… Hana's in a fucked-up place, mentally speaking. There'll be a lot more nihilism and general depression in this arc.
> 
> So. Continue with an open mind to this huge chapter!

 

_It's Hana's eleventh birthday. Mother has kicked her out so that the Ssang Kal can hunker down at their house, hiding from the cops who've busted their crack ring._

_She wanders the streets in a fever-induced daze, fingers and toes too stiff to curl. The world is a flurry of white, constantly shifting in front of her eyes as it dances and sways around her. Snow is so unfairly beautiful, for such a dangerous thing._

Saengerchu-ka habnida…

Saengerchu-ka habnida…

_Her breath creates great, nebulous clouds in the frozen air as she hums the birthday song to herself._

_On another day, someone would've called out to her. Why is a little child walking through the blinding snow unattended? They would've felt bad for her, ushering her into their own houses-_  poor thing, come inside, we have some stew left over _, tsk-tsking to themselves over Hana's neglect. They knew about the infamous instability of Nara Song, and about her mysterious child who was rarely ever seen outside._

_Yet nobody in their right mind would be outside to witness Hana today, as the below-freezing temperatures pierce into thick winter coats like icy spears. They jab through Hana's skin until she feels like her body is crumbling away._

It's too cold out. _Hana stands in the main road, sprinkles of frost decorating her hair like Christmas lights._  I should go inside.

_But there's nowhere to go._

_Being kicked out isn't an uncommon thing for Hana. Seon trusts Nara Song more than he does most of his floozies, and for good reason. Nara's severe abandonment issues has turned her into a clingy, pathetic woman, annoying to most but useful to Seon. And Nara loves Seon._

_After all, Seon is the one person in her life that treats her as special, needed…. someone indispensable to his own life, which is romantic until you realize, like Hana had so long ago, that Seon gives no shits about Nara. She is a tool, nothing more._

_And what frustrates Hana to no end, what had got her to eventually hate her own mother, is that Nara is blind to that fact. There is absolutely no chance of her turning Seon in to the cops, and so Seon has learned to head straight to her when the cops are after him._

_It's not like Hana especially wants to be in a room with Mr. Seon, so most of the time she leaves without being told to. She can't refuse to let Seon in, or argue with her mother. She's just a little girl._

Age is something that commands respect,  _she thinks a little sadly._

_Age, experience. Hana has neither._

_During winter, she goes to the parking lot of the apartment building and lies beneath one of the hovercars. The pulse engines on the newer models are constantly running, keeping the car afloat, and generates heat as a result._

_It isn't enough to make Hana feel warm, but it is enough to keep her from freezing to death. She has to be careful not to fall asleep, though, as being caught in such a suspicious position could cause dangerous amounts of trouble._

_Today is just another day like that. Kicked out of her own home. For some reason, she only gets halfway to a hovercar, hands shaking in the snow like a crack addict's, before she stops._

_Turns the other way._

_Begins walking down the empty street._

_The snow pours down in thick flakes. Hana thinks blankly, a little hysterically, that_  there is nothing left for me here.  _She decides that she will keep going and going and going until she finds somewhere she can safely call home, somewhere with food and water and a nice little roof, or maybe she'll come across Father and they'll go back and save Nara together._

_At some point she falls. But it's okay. Maybe it's not somewhere in the living world that holds the glowing little family Hana has been searching for, but instead someplace in the oncoming darkness._

* * *

The first things she registers is the  _cold._ It's so, so cold, a cold that bites deep into her flesh to the bone, creeping slowly up from her limbs to entangle itself with her slowly beating heart.

Her mind is numb. At first, she doesn't quite remember what she was doing, or where she is. It is only instinct, not rational thought, that drives her to curl in on herself, breathing through her mouth to create warm puffs of air over frozen fingers.

The action invigorates her, keeps her mind off the chill and onto something else- what exactly had happened right before she slipped into darkness?

 _I was walking around the streets after I got kicked out by Mother,_ says her memories, while the more rational part of her mind argues,  _That was five years ago._

With unfeeling, secretarial precision, Hana begins to organize her thoughts. They fall into place like blank puzzle pieces.

_What happened-_

… _captured. I was captured._

_Who they are-_

_Purple woman._

_Man in a mask._

_Terrorists. They're with Talon._

_Who they killed-_

_Amin. Tara?_

_Tara. Maybe Genji. And more people._

_Where I am-_

Hana cricks her neck as she tries to sit up and get a better view of this place. This time, she doesn't have to try hard- someone has placed her in an upright position against a wall. A blank, grey, concrete wall, reminiscent of something you'd find in a prison.

Pins and needles prickle her skin as blood begins to circulate better. Hana turns to the front. Sprouting from the ground like steel bamboo shoots, is a series of metal bars- a jail cell. A cyberized padlock is stuck onto the door, blinking red in the dark.

 _The handcuffs are still there._ She lifts her wrists, teeth chattering, and Genji's rabbit charm jingles merrily against the chains. At the very least, she still has the bracelet. She doesn't know what she would do without the bracelet; a cheaply made souvenir from better days and her last anchor to sanity all rolled up into one little geometric bunny head.

The feeling returns to her body, slowly, and Hana understands why she is so cold- the pink jacket Amin had given her is now lying in the corner of her cell, rumpled and stained with something that looks like blood. She raises a hand ( _hands_ , as the handcuffs demand) to gingerly probe at her forehead. It's sticky with blood. A strange ring of numbness surrounds the main injury, like her sense of touch there is all disrupted.

_I got hit._

_I was captured._

And suddenly, Hana lashes out with her legs, kicking at the cell. It rings dully in her ears.

She screams, choking on the word halfway through. " _FUCK!"_

The tang of blood fills her mouth; she immediately spits on the ground and runs a trembling wrist over her lips. A crimson smear of blood dashes across her skin, like an oozing cut. It's so ugly against her starkly white skin.

What the actual  _hell_ is all this? There is  _nothing_ she can do. She has no gun, no games, no extraordinary combat abilities. She's not used to feeling this helpless- at least when she was living with Genji, she had someone to watch her back, even when Talon came storming in. And even before that, with Mr. Seon and her mother and her disappearing father- she'd had a  _job. Responsibilities._

_Power._

Now- all she can do is-  _sit_ here-

Tears well up in Hana's eyes, to her mild annoyance. She tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling, dark lashes fluttering furiously to catch any tears trying to slip down her face. Crying is a pointless and stupid activity reserved for children, and Hana is no longer a child.

_I will not cry. I will not…_

Her thoughts spiral off tangent, jabbing in random, panicked directions.

_Am I going to die? Genji said they won't kill me. McCree said that, too. But they're going to hurt me, right?_

Hana doesn't want to die. She's thought about it before, whether life with all its egregious troubles was worth living, and even decided a couple times that it wasn't. She'd tried to act on those thoughts before, and failed painfully. _At one point, I was ready to die._

But now?

When Hana is presented with death head-on, when Hana is presented with a problem with no other solutions but  _death-_ her body screams, fights with tooth and nail to  _live_. Every inhalation of air feels her lungs struggling to keep her alive, every pulsation of her limbs allows her to feel the thumping away of her traitorous heart.

She bites her lip, that taste of iron still thick on her tongue. _What would Genji do if he were here? What would McCree do?_

The thought calms her, even as her hands shake with a combination of cold and utter hopelessness.

Genji would... Genji would feel no fear, sitting here in quiet meditation as he waited for an opening. He'd take the first opportunity presented to slaughter the Talon agents, no weapons needed, and walk off into the night. Maybe grab a warm piece of goldfish bread for Hana on the way.

McCree would laugh. Spit in the Reaper's face. Take down six people all at once with his gun,  _bangbangbangbangbangbang-_ easy. Grab his hat and be on his merry way. She can almost hear his jovial voice in her head, so much warmer than the cold depths of this prison.  _That wasn't so hard, eh, Hana? Let's git outta here!_

 _They wouldn't be scared._ Hana grabs at her jacket, pulls it over her shoulders and hugs her knees to her chest. Her teeth chatter like shaking piano tiles; everything about her is trembling, from her legs to her arms to her fragile little heart.

_I'm not scared._

_You're fighting a losing battle,_ chides DVA, voice childishly smug. Her perfect features swim in the eye of Hana's mind, twisted into a little smile.  _You don't have to be scared; you're not alone... We have each other. When Talon comes for you, I'll be there to help-_

"I don't need any of your damn sass." Hana hugs her knees tighter, circling in on herself. Her toes feel like they're about to fall off- they'd confiscated her socks and boots, and the ground is freezing.

 _Hana isn't what we need right now,_ whispers that little voice, and when Hana looks up she sees DVA standing over her, dark locks of hair spilling past a perfect face. She's not wearing Amin's jacket or Genji's charm, standing unaffected by the cold in her simple white tee. DVA stares down at her with contempt.

And Hana hates her for it.

What message was her subconscious trying to push by creating DVA? That if Hana throws away all her morals, becomes a selfish bitch, piles on the makeup, puts effort towards her appearance, fakes being confident, and manipulates the shit out of an audience, she'll be like DVA? Someone who doesn't give a damn about anyone?  _Someone who can survive this ordeal._

Maybe it's true. Maybe the reason why Hana was only ever successful as DVA was because Hana just didn't have anything. Hana was a mess of a girl trying to hold onto a broken family, while DVA had a future career in gaming, millions of loving fans, and international attention- even to herself, it's laughably obvious which of the two is more competent. Hana can't survive in this world, but a deceptive psychopath can.

"But I'm not you."

Her voice trails off into a whimper, pathetic even to her own ears.

"I don't need you. I'm fine. I'm-"

"They say that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness."

She jerks up, sudden sweat beading her forehead even though the temperature dips south. The sound of a door slamming shut echoes throughout the dark hallway. Embarrassment from being heard rambling to herself like a lunatic gives way to bitter anger when she sees who it is.

Purple Woman pads on over, even more extravagantly dressed now that Hana examines her under the light- the side of her head seems to be shaved, giving her a long, floppy silver-tipped deathhawk for hair. Her stockings and gloves shimmer and glow, little points of light glowing on them occasionally. Instead of shoes, she's been given some sort of skintight leggings that cover her feet… or maybe they're cybernetics.

The woman's lips are curled up in a smile. She walks in like she owns the place.

… _Who am I kidding? She probably does._

"You're cold because you lost a good amount of blood." Purple taps on over to the bars of the cell, crouches down to stare eye-level at Hana. She stares back, fascinated by the intense violet of Purple's irises. They remind her of the cosmetic eye surgeries that are so popular in Korea nowadays, changing eye colors from brown and blue to hot pinks and rainbow shades… though, knowing Purple, her eyes serve some sinister purpose instead of an aesthetic one.

"You'll warm back up in a day or so.  _Lo siento_ about that, by the way…I'm sureReaps didn't mean to hit you  _that_ hard."

Purple's voice is falsely warm. DVA whispers something-  _her voice is devoid of empathy. Be careful._

 _I already know. You don't need to tell me._ "McCree warned me about him," Hana says suspiciously, the memory coming back like a drowning man lurching to the surface of a vast ocean. "The Reaper. A former Blackwatch agent from his combat patterns that surfaced after Overwatch's fall."

Purple grins, her teeth white against her tanned skin. "Jesse McCree is a smart man. In fact, I should probably kill him for that."

Hana bites back a question,  _how do you know him,_ because she doesn't trust herself to say any more about McCree. In fact, she doesn't even want to think about him.

 _Because Jesse McCree was right. Going to save Tara and Amin did absolutely nothing, except get me captured._  She exhales a low breath over freezing lips, in hopes that they would thaw a little.

_This is my mess. It's not his place to help me._

At this point, hope feels further out of reach than it has ever been. Hana scoots back against the cell, sitting up straight as she can, voice apprehensive. "What do you want, Purple?"

" _Purple?"_ the woman guffaws. "Firstly, while I am indeed purple, I am not Purple. I am Sombra _._ And secondly…  _ach,_ Hana Song."

Purple- Sombra- she sits down against the ground, crossing her legs like she's sitting in a lounge chair. Her jacket is almost as mesmerizing as her eyes- a series of silvers and dark purples put together by an expert hand.

"What a stupid question.  _I_ want a lot of things, as do you, and Overwatch, and Talon. What you  _should_ be asking is," and she leans forward intensely like she's advertising a particularly intense commercial, "what do we  _both_ want?"

Hana doesn't understand the point of all this. She'd been expecting torture and mental assault, not some Spanish-speaking terrorist playing word games around her. Sombra's fakely warm personality creates a sense of rising tension, like Hana is slowly approaching the top of a roller coaster.

"There's nothing we have in common," she spits, hands clenching around her jacket. She glances down- they're bone white, and trembling slightly. "Nothing that we both want."

 _A_  smile remains on the Sombra's face, so friendly and nonchalant. Hana has to keep reminding herself that  _this woman is from Talon. She killed Amin. She killed… she…_

"You'd be wrong there,  _chica_." She begins counting off on her long fingers, which are gloved in a shimmery purple material. Her voice is almost sarcastic in the way it is so uncaring. "We both want to keep you alive. We both want to negotiate peacefully. And…"

That smile stays there, so smug.

"…we both want to kill Mr. Seon."

The entire world jumps as Hana's head shoots up. Sombra's long lashes flutter innocently as she examines her long, modified fingernails. That little self-satisfied smirk on her face makes it clear that her words were no accident.

_What the fuck._

"How-" she begins, and her voice is  _breaking,_ because Seon feels like a lifetime away, and  _how does she know-_

"His bank account," Sombra replies casually, as if that explains everything.

But of course it doesn't. Hana stares. The Hispanic woman sighs and rolls her eyes.

"Transactions have been happening between his holo card and your BuyPal account for the better part of a decade. He's been extorting money from you,  _escasa chica,_ since you were, what- nine?" The woman  _tut-tuts,_ splaying out her fingers in the light. She gazes up at them, features softened with mock pity.

"Poor creature."

So Talon knows about Hana's pathetic past. She shrugs the jacket further up her shoulders, holding it tighter around her, a little flit of fear running through her chest. "Why do you want him dead?"

"Because he's annoying," Sombra promptly replies.

At Hana's incredulous look, Sombra rolls her eyes for the third time in the last twenty seconds. Her voice drips derision.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You meant, why does  _Talon_ want him dead, not me.  _Talon_ wants him dead because he's a useless drain of resources, mm?"

"You're… a part of Talon," mutters Hana defensively, unsure of what to make of this bizarre turn in the conversation. Sombra reels back, seemingly offended by this, if the arching of her eyebrows is anything to go off of.

"A part of Talon!  _Me!_ I am no subsidiary of some organization,  _chica,"_ she complains with childlike sullenness. "I  _am_ the organization! Hear its name-  _Sombra._ You see? I am representing them as a… partner."

Talon, friends of Talon- as far as Hana is concerned, they're all the same jackasses that messed up her life. Her fists tighten around her jacket. "Whatever you say, Purple."

"That's more like it." Sombra suddenly leans forward, and Hana scrambles back, an involuntary spike of alarm jolting her heart. " _Whatever I say_. So you'll join us? We offer so many things, with no laws to restrict us."

Hana sputters. "I don't-"

There is something to be said about how casual Sombra is as she says, "If you'd so have it, we can string Seon upside down from the Korean president's lounge and use him as a piñata. Whatever you want,  _chica._ "

A little wink.

"…If you've been watching me for this long, then you should know that I'm on my way to join Overwatch," said Hana quietly. "You think I'll leave to join the enemy organization just because-?"

"Fuck Overwatch." Sombra narrows her eyes. "I mean, come on, Song. Look at you. Where is your precious Overwatch now?"

And that's a good point. Hana's childhood heroes are nowhere to be seen.

The entire way Sombra has presented Talon is so different from what Hana had anticipated. Sombra speaks of joining Talon like a college student speaks of admitting some freshman into their sorority, while Hana was thinking more along the lines of thumbscrews, broken bones, and waterboarding.

And presenting Hana with Mr. Fucking Seon on a silver platter... it's one huge incentive for her, as well as proof that Talon has Hana's interests at least somewhat in mind. That they don't necessarily have to be opposites in terms of wants, Talon is saying.  _Come with us!_

_They're trying to manipulate me._

But  _oh,_ is it so damn tempting-

" _Hana Song."_

_Genji's voice is too serene. Hana wants to shut him up, tell him to stop moving and talking- there's a fucking hole in his torso-_

" _You have been able to cope with things that most people have never had to face, and never will. They have been difficult, but in the end, you overcame them, and here you stand. Still alive."_

Hana stills.

It's strange, how the smallest memories and details of a person's life can push them to do the opposite of whatever they were leaning towards just a second ago. Because even Hana is surprised when she hears herself coldly spit,

"I'd rather swallow broken glass."

The corners of Sombra's glossy purple lips slide slowly down, like a withering flower.

Hana watches as she stands up, abruptly, her voice shockingly icy. The air of warmth has disappeared, and the friendly glint in her eyes has winked out of existence.

"Well, I'll tell Reaps that I tried. Can't blame me for anything anymore."

Her gaze wanders back to Hana, who flinches. There is no anger in Sombra's violet eyes; just cold disappointment.

"You realize no food will be coming your way for, what… a week?" A tilt of the head, an uncaring expression fixed onto those pixielike features. "So long as you say no.  _Are_ you still saying no?"

Her heart and mind say "Yep" with utmost casualness while her body panics and shouts,  _screams, NO._

It's foolish for her to put up resistance like this, when there is no hope of escape. No exit in sight. But Hana's pride won't allow it, and Genji's voice won't allow it, and Tracer at her mission in Russia won't allow it, McCree wandering somewhere alone in Busan won't allow it, and-

-and Amin and Tara, with their smiling faces as they choked down some overcooked dinner and laughed with her over Starcraft. They won't allow it either.

One sneer, and Sombra disappears. Quite literally. One moment, she's there, then after one sound like crackling cellophane later, there is nobody but Hana. Hana with her freezing limbs and bloodied face and jacket from a dead woman.

_Things aren't so bad._

She bows her head, dark curls falling around her face like drops of ink through dispersing through water.

How long can she go on like this, anyway? The last time she ate was an entire day ago, at Amin's house. Her stomach is already complaining from lack of food, as if something in her is gnawing at her insides.

A smile splits her face, crooked and crazed, and a furious hum fills her head, and a laugh comes spilling out, like something burning in her mouth.

… _things aren't so bad._

She's beginning to understand those who resent Overwatch. Where are they now, when she needs them the most? Ms. Amari had been the one to recruit her, Genji had been the one retrieve her. But where is Genji now?

* * *

_Bullets pepper the dust kicked up by Jesse's heels. He sprints across the sand like he's on fire, clutching the package in between his little arms with everything he's got. If he drops it, then tonight he'll be sleeping in a grave._

_BANG, BANG, BANG- phtphtphtpht- the bullets miss flesh; Jesse makes it to shelter. He scrambles in head-first, nearly falling on Yoder as he tumbled from the entrance to the floor of the little hole-in the-ground._

_The older man doesn't even look at Jesse. He slams the trapdoor above them shut, then grabs the brown paper-wrapped parcel from Jesse's arms, tearing it open with one careless hand. Jesse lays there on the ground, his lungs shifting up and down like great bellows._

_He hasn't run like that in ages, like the Devil himself was on his heels._  Though, I figger Boss Jehovah is close enough to th'Devil,  _he decides._

Boss Jehovah.  _The Devil of the West. Jesse shivers. Anxiety is building up in his system and sets his hands all a-shakin', even though he hasn't even shot anyone today._

_Something falls on his face- brown paper, torn off a package. Jesse swats it away, sits up straight, to find that Yoder is holding a note, a box, and a little black gun. He silently mouths the words as his eyes scan the paper, mustache twitching like a live black mouse on his upper lip._

_Jesse pipes up. "Well? Whatsit say?"_

_Yoder's mouth stops moving, but his eyes keep staring._

_He folds the paper in half with a strange solemnity. Jesse watches him in apprehension. He didn't know the man very well, and their relations to each other were strictly professional. Yet Jesse found himself trusting Yoder more than he did the others._

_Perhaps it was his age; all it takes is luck to survive into your thirties as a Deadlock hustler, but anything beyond that requires something special. Yoder often told Jesse that he was probably somewhere in his forties to early fifties, though he'd lost track of his birthday a long time ago. Impressive._

Age is something that commands respect,  _he thinks suddenly._

_Age, experience._ _Jesse McCree has neither._

_Yoder turns to the tunnel at their right. It's Deadlock's pride and joy; used to smuggle a metric ton of cocaine every month. It's so immense that Jesse wonders if the authorities have detected it a while ago, but are simply letting it slide. Jehovah's probably stuffing enough greenbacks down their throats to shut them up for a while._

… _Yeah, that's probably it. Slimy gits. The authorities aren't to be trusted._

_There's a long moment of silence as Yoder stares into the darkness of the tunnel. Jesse jumps to his feet, shoving Peacekeeper into his belt from where it had been clutched in his hand. "Yoder? You finally up and died, old man?"_

" _Shut yer gob, Jesse." Yoder's wrinkled, sun-spotted face scrunches in on itself like a drying prune. "We need to go."_

_At Jesse's confused stare, he grabs Jesse's arm and begins on down the tunnel._

_He stumbles forward, feet dragging along. Something isn't right. "We can't do that," he reminds Yoder. He jabs a thumb behind him, pointing in the direction of the New Mexican desert that expanded around them._

" _Morden's still out there. We gotta open the door for him. It's the only way fer him to get-"_

" _Morden's dead," says Yoder shortly. Jesse can't make out his expression from this angle, facing Yoder's plaid-covered back._

_It's been a while since Yoder has been this wrong. "Nah, he ain't. He was with me, see, in the foxhole, and he told me to run with the package, to give it to you. Said I was smaller and quicker-like, so I should run first, and then wait for him to run in to the tunnel with us," informs Jesse. They are far enough from the trapdoor for Jesse to smell the musty clay scent that occupies the main tunnel._

" _You listen to me now, Jesse McCree," snaps Yoder. He turns, quickly; his fingers dig deep into Jesse's shoulders. Jesse flinches, eyes wide, as they stare into Yoder's green irises._

" _Morden is dead. Do you hear me? HE IS DEAD."_

" _He's_ not  _dead, he just got his leg grazed, sir," pants Jesse, squirming in his grip. "We need to go-"_

"He's dead _." There's an intense expression on Yoder's grizzled face, something coldly determined that Jesse has never seen before. "He's dead, and we're leaving."_

_He sets off again, this time steering Jesse in front of him with a vicelike grip on both his shoulders. Jesse cranes his neck behind them. With this brisk pace they've set, no way they can get back in time to open the door for Morden._

_Three minutes of trudging down the tunnel later, Jesse first hears it. An echo, bouncing off the tunnel walls from a distance._

" _M'CREE! LEMME IN!"_

Bam, bam, bam.

_He can almost see Morden in his mind's eye- big, strapping fellow with a gold-tinged beard that wrapped around his face like a bush, on his knees and pounding at the trapdoor in a panic. Yoder curses under his breath, breaks into a run._

_Not towards the trapdoor, but further down the tunnel. Jesse digs his heels into the ground, forcing them to stop. "Yoder! I told you, he's alive, he-"_

" _WHAT THE HELL, GUYS! OPEN UP, YOU LOT A SONSABITCHES!" The echoes grow steadily fainter. "THEY'RE COMIN', HURRY-"_

" _He's dead." Yoder tugs on Jesse sharp enough for Jesse to lurch forward. "And we'll all be dead, too, if we don't git down the tunnel fast enough."_

_Jesse sputters. Is it possible for a man in his fifties to go senile? "I don't git-"_

_Yoder brandishes the note in Jesse's face- too bad, Jesse doesn't know how to read, so he slaps it out of Yoder's hand. "I DON'T GET-"_

" _They know where the tunnel is!" Yoder spits. He drags his sleeve across his wrinkled forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat. "They know where the tunnel is, an' they'll be down here in a moment. We can only make it if we keep goin', 'Cree. If we waited for Morden, we wouldn't have had time."_

" _JESSE!"_

_Morden. Something in Jesse's heart seizes, like he'd been shot in the chest. It hurts._

" _But Morden-"_

" _Morden's good as dead, kid." Yoder lets go of Jesse, gives him that contempt-filled stare that all the adults give him when he doesn't obey orders. "You don't go back to 'save' someone who's already dead. There ain't no_ point  _in savin' the deceased. You wanna be a part a'the deceased, too? Go on ahead."_

_He shoves Jesse away from him. Jesse stares at Yoder, who scowls down at him._

" _Go on ahead."_

_Yoder spins back around and starts off down the tunnel again. It's like two things are pulling Jesse at once in opposite directions- the figure of Yoder's retreating back in front of him, Morden's faintly ringing voice from behind._

"… _JESSE, PLEASE!"_

There ain't no point in savin' the deceased.

_Jesse follows Yoder._

* * *

_There ain't no point in savin' the deceased._

And yet here McCree is, attempting to do just that. Going against one of the first lessons he'd learned during his Deadlock days.

Nightfall brings lower temperatures and the blinking lights of the city. It's more difficult to see things in the dark, sure, but for some reason Jesse McCree feels calmer. More relaxed. In daylight, he had always felt awkward, like he didn't belong anywhere.

Not to mention that at night, people are less likely to notice a hostage.

Sujin has been losing her composure with every step they take from the apartment complex, which is… understandable for a woman being threatened at gunpoint, honestly. He would feel worse for her if she hadn't slapped him, long, elegant nails scratching straight through McCree's cheek.

He'd smiled at her, wiping away the thin trails of blood with the back of his hand.  _Sorry, lady, but you've lost. Come with me._

Sujin's bare feet (the heels fell off somewhere on the elevator down) trip and stumble against the concrete. She makes no attempt to re-align herself with McCree's gun, which is pointed at the small of her back.

"You're a murderer," she intones, voice dull, before she slips back into incomprehensible Korean. They make slow but steady progress back towards the Ssang Kal's hovercar, from which Sujin will guide McCree to Seon's next hideout.

"For the last time, I didn't kill 'em. Their legs are a little messed up, sure, but there ain't nothing that can't be fixed," replies McCree with annoyance. He flicks his gun, prompting her to move again. "And I won't kill you either, missy. As long as you take me to Seon's other hiding spot."

A responsible  _vaquero_ would've disposed of the gangsters immediately, but then again, McCree wasn't a responsible  _anything._ The poor shmucks were just doing their job, he rationalized; what harm would there be in letting them live?

_(Talon will hunt them down and interrogate them anyway. All because of you and your damn mercy.)_

His eyes burn from the use of Deadeye, going blurry and dry every couple seconds. It's annoying, but he'll have to deal with it… that, and the exhaustion slowly setting in his limbs.

To be completely honest, he isn't sure at all about what to do with Talon. Using the upper echelons of the Ssang Kal to reach Talon- sure, that's reasonable enough of a plan. But what will he do once he gets there? Bust Hana out of her holding cell, all by himself? There's no point in knowing a prisoner's location if there's no way to retrieve them.

 _A righteous action is just an action until it accomplishes something righteous,_  as Ms. Amari had always lectured him after his brash attempts to save his comrades (most of which had failed miserably).  _Don't confuse a stupid move with a brave one._

 _Now, now, Ms. Amari,_ he chides himself as he strolls to the Ssang Kal's car.  _Don't get pessimistic here. I've lived through situations where I should've died on more than one occasion, eh? Is this any different?_

 _Yes._ Ms. Amari's voice is pointed.  _This time, it's not just you- another person's life hangs in balance._

"I can never win when it comes to you," he whispers softly, under his cigarillo-scented breath.

Sujin stops abruptly in her tracks, and McCree snaps back to attention. For a moment he thinks she's stepped on something sharp, or maybe they've reached something impassable… but no, he realizes as he checks in front of them with a quick glance. There's just pavement, and the Ssang Kal car ten meters ahead of them.

McCree nudges her with Peacekeeper. "Hmm? Lady, I haven't got all day-"

She holds up her fist in a peculiar gesture, with her thumb tucked between her index and middle finger, as she turns her head slightly. Bitter anger burns in her dark eye. Hair falls in loose strands around her face, as she spits something in Korean that sounds as appropriately vengeful.

He cricks his neck, unsure of how many times he's been cursed in some foreign language at this point. More than McCree's fair share of people have created grudges against him, and he's learned to brush it off over the years. What's done is done. Whether they consume themselves in revenge or not isn't McCree's business.

And that's what enables him to be perfectly cool and polite when he replies, "Sure, m'lady, whatever you say. Get movin'."

They get into the car in silence, McCree sitting on the driver side while Sujin assumes the role of passenger. He flexes his real fingers (the metal ones are becoming difficult to control at this point) over Peacekeeper to assure her of his own power, before telling her to point him in the direction of Seon's hideout.

She sits there for a good three seconds, a world-weary line creasing between her brows. There is something tragic about how hazy the look in her eyes are.

Then she finally nods.

They get stuck in traffic almost immediately. Busan's cities are a mess of cars and taxis and mass waves of pedestrians swarming over crosswalks. It's an almost nostalgic feeling for McCree, who hasn't been able to wander about in the open city like this for a long time. Doing so would be like waving a bag of forty million dollars around in the open, screaming  _come take it,_ with nothing but a single gun to defend all of it with.

A damn good gun, sure. But a single gun nonetheless.

It's the third red light. He's drumming his fingers over the wheel, humming  _I'm Burning for You,_ when he glances over at Sujin and immediately regrets it: Sujin wears the look of a crushed woman, slightly smeared lipstick and all. She stares dully out the windshield, a pale shadow of the suave woman who'd tried to seduce him back at the bar.

For some reason, he feels like he should console her. Or at least try to. Jesse McCree is a gentleman, after all… aside from all he killing, robbing, destroying, and assaulting he's been doing lately.

"Hey." He ceases his drumming, gets Sujin's attention. Smiles a little. "Quit it with the long face. Things ain't so bad for you."

She considers this for a moment.

Then she scoffs.

"What would you know, cowboy? You ruined eight of my men, took me prisoner, and are forcing me to betray my boss."

McCree's hand tightens against the wheel of the car as Sujin looks away.  _I mean… she's not wrong._ "With all due respect, miss, you'd do the same if you were in my position."

"And if I were in your position,  _mister_ ," she says acidly. "I would understand why my prisoner is so upset. You have taken years of progress from right under my feet with that gun of yours."

"Tough break, I guess."

"Tough break?" Sujin straightens, and some of that lost composure comes back. "I was  _Yi Sujin,_ one of the best drug dealers in Busan!" She scoffs, lowers her gaze.

"Now look at me.  _Pathetic_."

"It's to save a life," McCree offers. "I'd say dealing drugs is hardly comparable to saving somebody's life."

"Then you, Mister, have the pleasure of knowing that nine lives have been exchanged today for your one." She fiddles with the edge of her skirt as she turns to stare blankly at McCree. Her tone is sharply accusing.

"And the worst part is that you have probably done this before, and not felt sorry at all. Am I correct, you self-righteous bastard?"

Witty rebuttals die on McCree's lips. The Korean gangster drug-dealer woman is right (which is something he'd never thought he'd say). He's sacrificed the majority to save the minority multiple times before,  _though,_   _that was mostly on Gabe's orders. Right now, I'm actin' by myself._

It's all on him now. There is no Blackwatch, no Overwatch, no U.N. or Petras Act for him to blame.

He focuses on Hana, pissed off and stubborn, arms crossed over a faded hoodie. Her laughter as she stared down the ruins of the destroyed subway station, skin covered in a fine layer of ash. It's true that he doesn't know her very well, it's true that he's being selfish, but it's also true that he can't live with himself if he just lets this kid go.

So he  _might_ as well just break into a gang's hideout, interrogate its leader, get a terrorist organization's location, drive to it, shoot down the guards, and break Hana out of there… right?

The light blinks from red to green.

He steps on the gas.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Chica-_ girl

 _Escasa chica-_ poor (pitiful, unfortunate) girl

Fist with thumb between fingers- Korean variation of the middle finger

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> I've been working on another project (Overwatch-related as well) with a particular artist and it's taken up a good bit of time. It'll be worth it when it finally comes out, though!
> 
> As for the story. Things are beginning to come full circle… Overwatch, Amin and Tara, DVA, the Ssang Kal, Hana's mother, Talon, McCree, and yes. Even Genji. Things are beginning to get resolved.
> 
> I, for one, am very excited to have gotten this far. As always, I look forward to reading all your reviews, and thank all those who followed this story in my absence!


	25. can you hear it? a pulse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> Kill me to death, boys and girls. The Life of Hana Song is finally back online!
> 
> And I have a feeling you guys will enjoy this chapter because… just kidding, I'm not an absolute wanker who spoils shit, so just kick back, relax, and see you in the chapter-concluding Author's Note! (Where the hell I was and the future of this fic is elaborated upon there.)

The sky is a steady gradient of deep, dark purples to a clear orange by the time McCree pulls into the parking lot of the old church.

He takes a long drag from his cigarillo, having freshly replenished his supply at a little mom-and-pop convenience store manned by the oldest woman he'd ever seen. She'd hardly even looked at McCree as she handed over the musty box of smokes, mumbling something in incoherent Korean as Sujin paid her with an almost concerned look on her face, like the old woman was about to keel over and die at any moment.

Sujin.

_Her._

What was he going to do with her? (He thinks, and his fingers instinctively clench from how thoughtlessly cruel it is, that he should've killed her back at the apartment complex.)

She stays buckled into the hovercar despite McCree's best efforts. "It'll get cold in that skimpy dress," he protests while Sujin glares at him with eyes like icicles.

"You shot up my men, disrupted my entire chain of command," she complains, pale legs crossing over each other. Her thickly lined eyes narrow in his direction, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And now you want to take me to my boss. How do you think that will go, Mr. McCree?"

McCree breathes out a puff of curling white smoke as he speaks.

"Y'said that, uh, that. That rival leader. Chamey-or-somethin'-or-other."

He leans against the car's window frame. His metal arm sparks orange, and he hides his wince beneath the brim of his hat. There's no Angie or Torbjorn or Bridgette to help him out with the arm… at least, not until he re-joins Overwatch.

"He might've usurped that guy, Seon. Won't you be fine then?"

Sujin pulls down the mirror, and begins smudging out her lipstick as she peers at her own dusty reflection. McCree has to admire the woman's pluck. "Then it would be even more dangerous. Why keep me as a head supplier when Chamseh has his own men that need positions? He will replace me with his own and I will end up stuffed in an oil drum halfway to the bottom of the South China Sea, or…  _worse._ Used as a plaything, then discarded." She waves one lipstick-stained hand. "You go on your own."

_She's going to run, and I don't have handcuffs or any means to keep her here._

Guilt is a funny thing. It pops up whenever it's needed least like a crude jack-in-the-box, making McCree flinch at its ugly face. He'd already ruined this woman's life, but it looked like he needed to take it a step further- and  _bam-_ guilt, screaming in his face like he hadn't already learned by heart everything it says.

But desperate times require desperate measures, and for McCree, it's… it's pretty much  _always_ desperate times.

"I'll let you choose," he says with a baleful smile. He hooks his finger around Peacekeeper and gives her a twirl, the muzzle catching the light from the glowing sunset.  _I'm sorry._

"One. I knock you so far the hell out that you stay unconscious fer the next four days."

Sujin looks up, and that carefully calculated air of nonchalance seems to freeze in place around her, like a mask.

"Two." He flips back the hammer with a deft thumb. "I kill you."

The sudden fear in her eyes is familiar.

"Three."

McCree points Peacekeeper between Sujin's eyes, and his smile widens like a baring of teeth. "You go with me. How 'bout it, miss?"

She's out of the sedan in seconds.

McCree turns and begins to stroll towards the church, the very picture of casual confidence.  _…Thank God it worked._

Gabriel Reyes, commander of Blackwatch and embittered deputy to Jack Morrison, was a very good soldier. He used to say that the reason Blackwatch ( _Overwatch, except with no Golden Boy Morrison_ ) threatened and blackmailed and tortured people, even when it was so against the U.N.'s higher-than-thou code of ethics, was that nothing else ever produced results. He'd taught McCree from day one at base,  _always believe in your head that you'll do what you're threatening, or it'll never come out right. Even if you don't think you're capable of it. Say you're gonna blast their head off, and then imagine what that would be like- the blood and the gray mush- and think, 'Oh. That's not a big deal.'_

_Threaten like you mean it._

_Because you do._

Gabe was a very good soldier, but maybe not the best father figure.

Still, McCree had looked up to King Reyes, as the boys used to call him. It was an odd relationship. Big, scary sonofabitch as he was, Gabe had that special something that just made a man  _want_ to follow him. Like he was hiding purple blood somewhere under that tough, scarred skin.

A big part of that special quality was that not a single member of Blackwatch, from the soldiers to the mercenaries to the murderers, had to worry about being thrown out to the wolves. The stiffs, the higher-ups. Everyone under King Reyes has a place, everyone under King Reyes has a purpose- and as long as you don't fuck up, you have nothing to worry about. Fair is fair is fair. The wolves go hungry for another night.

But Reyes best not catch you slipping, or he'll set the wolves snapping on your heels just to get you moving.

Even now, long after Gabe had blown up the Swiss Base, Old Man Morrison, and own big selfish goddamned piece-of-shit asshole bastard self, McCree finds himself relying on Gabe's advice. They pop up in his head like the lyrics of catchy songs and stick around for much longer than they have any right to.

He wishes the lyrics were more romantic than  _don't kill a wounded man right away, 'cos you can lure out his comrades and the medics out into the open before you toss the grenade._

McCree twitches the ash off his cigarillo. If Gabe were alive and present right now, walking in McCree's company… then Sujin… Sujin  _wouldn't_ be.

_Listen,_ pendejo _. You eat, shoot, and shit at my command. And right now I'm telling you to shoot._

He glances back at Sujin.

Well. She's out of the car, and following him more or less compliantly as he walks through the big double-doors of the abandoned church. They drift slowly closed behind them, big planks of mahogany that release a booming  _thud_ when they finally slam shut. Sujin blinks at the surroundings, owl-eyed with an almost childish curiosity.

McCree exhales. His hand relaxes from the bundle of nerves it had been just moments earlier.  _Sorry, Gabe. Ain't killing her today._

The interior of the church is more impressive than the drab exterior. Spread out like an array of pieces on a chessboard are many, many wooden pews, stacked over a faded red-and-black tile floor. Standing in front of the entire thing is a six-foot wooden statue of Christ himself, glaring down at McCree with worn cedar eyes as if to say  _You lousy bunch of squatters! Get off my lawn!_

It sounds like something Commander Morrison would say. McCree chuckles to himself, low and dry. Jack Morrison, Jesus Christ… to most people, they were just about the same thing anyway. Golden Boy was sent from a distant heaven ( _Indiana, in some backwater hick corn-growing farm_ ) to deliver the people from their oppressors. His words were Scripture.

_Yeah, right._

He stubs out his cigarillo right between Christ's eyes, leaving a spot of black soot like a bullet hole. "Seon," he calls aloud, and it echoes impressively throughout the church-  _Seon, eon, eon, on._

Sujin gives him an angry  _shhh!_ as McCree continues blithely on. Ash falls from the cigarillo where it presses into Christ's forehead, trailing over blank, glaring eyes. "I wanna make a deal, y'hear? Could you-"

" _Chamseh might be here."_ Sujin is hissing right into McCree's ear, close enough to him that he can smell the thin lavender aroma of whatever shampoo she uses. Or maybe it's perfume. " _He is a hostile. Treat him as such!"_

McCree raises an eyebrow down at her, voice maintaining the same booming volume. "If Chamseh's here, ma'am, we'll be meetin' up with him anyways. So might as well make our presence known, eh?"

Sujin tries her best to look down her nose at him, which fails miserably, as McCree is a full head taller. Finally, she turns away with an air of defeat.

"Let's hurry, then," she says sharply, and starts to make her way up the stairs. "I want to get this over with."

McCree is quick to follow.

The old wooden planks of the floor creak and groan beneath every one of McCree's steps, further announcing their presence, and yet once they hit the second floor there is  _still_ no answer. Getting increasingly frustrated, McCree nudges Sujin with Peacekeeper and hisses, "You call out to 'im. If it's a familiar voice, who knows, he mighta had said somethin'."

Sujin's eyes lock onto the gun like a magnet. To the gangster's everlasting credit, her voice doesn't waver in the slightest as she calls: " _Seon-nim! Sujin-I ga wasuyo!"_

No response.

McCree positions Sujin in front of him like a shield. They approach the first door, a dusty and antiquated thing with worn hinges, and he kicks it open from behind her. The door falls flat on the ground with a too-loud  _boom,_ opening to… nothing.

"Next door," he tells himself tiredly.

And they go down the line, opening the next three doors in rapid succession. They abandoned rooms are all devoid of activity, but filled with not-so-abandoned papers and file cabinets; according to Sujin, the church was used as a Ssang Kal record holder of sorts, though it wasn't kept very up to date. The feeling worming around in McCree's gut increases.

_Seon is dead._

He's almost entirely sure of it. Here was a man on the run, someone who had fled from his old haunts ages ago and never came back. McCree tries to imagine Chamseh leering over the dead body of some muscled drug lord. If Seon would've been tough to persuade, then this Chamseh man will be even tougher.

He wonders if he can do it.

_BAM!_ With well-practice ease, McCree kicks open another door, and this one swings open to reveal another empty room, except- and his eyes widen-  _aha. What's this?_

Across the room, across from McCree, is a second door.

This one is different from the others. It's a domineering thing that looks to be made of some modern stuff, heavy-duty plastic fibers woven together. It was clearly installed decades after everything around it, standing several shades paler than the stained wallpaper. A smile brightens McCree's face- secret vaults are always good fun.

The smell of lavender shampoo. Sujin is right behind him, undoubtedly staring at this new development.

"You know what they say. Where there's a safe, there's something worth keepin' locked away," drawls McCree, and his hopes rise like hot steam in an unforgiving winter as he knocks on the door with a gloved knuckle.

The door is locked, so McCree shoots off the handle before busting the thing open. It leads to a desolate hall, one that is built of and smells strongly of wet cement. Dust bunnies clump at every corner, and threads of cobwebs gleam from the ceiling. Sujin follows him with an apprehensive stare, bare feet sliding quietly across the hardwood floor.

"He could be here," she says quietly. "I did not know this tunnel existed." She drags her finger across the wall, leaving a thin line in the thick layer of dust. "It does not seem to be well-used."

"Sure, sure. Come over here." McCree catches Sujin by the wrist and pulls her in front of him, again relying on her as a human shield. This time the woman flushes, begins to protest in hasty Korean, and there's something strange about how she's panicking. He stares, puzzled.

Then McCree realizes, and just scoffs at her.

"I ain't gonna lay a hand on you. Just stay in front of me where I can watch you," he says sheepishly. He positions her in front of him, prods her with Peacekeeper. "I know what you're scared of, and I  _swear_ I won't do it. Now just start walkin'."

As they continue down the tunnel, he begins to feel increasingly foolish.

Because of course Sujin is afraid. She must have been afraid for a long time, though she did make a good show of hiding it. McCree is a strange man sixty pounds heavier than her, and she is his skimpily dressed captive walking with him through a dark, abandoned tunnel.

But to be frank, McCree has never been that kind of criminal. And to think that someone else is afraid of him, afraid that he'd ever do…  _do_ something like that, makes him feel sour.

Sujin gathers herself quickly. Scowls darkly at him. Then she turns with a flip of her hair, which has totally pulled itself out of the neat updo it had been twisted into before, with an air of hurt pride.

They go on down the musty hall, their only light source being the ever-distant doorway behind them. There are lights dangling from the walls, connected with tangles of external wires, but McCree can't discern any way to turn them on.  _Probably somewhere at the end of the tunnel._

They walk on, and on, and on, far enough so that McCree figures that they're not in the church anymore. Probably in some adjacent building, one without any other entrances. It gets darker, more claustrophobic, but this makes McCree feel more- not less- hopeful. More  _excited._ Unlike that dilapidated apartment complex from before, this feels like a proper place to hide something precious.

Like the leader of a gang.

"… _don't…. was, I…"_

McCree freezes, yanking Sujin back by the arm. She stops as well, staring wide-eyed into the dark.

The sounds echo down the hall, from the thick darkness. It's the voice of a man, too muffled and distorted to identify properly. Deep? Deep, and hoarse.

"… _take... just leave me al…."_

McCree steps forward cautiously, boot spurs jangling louder in his ears than ever before. For the first time in his life, he wishes he hadn't ever added them to his footwear.

As the voices get clearer, Sujin grows more nervous. McCree can make out the reflexive swallow of her throat, the twitching in her eyes with every sound from down the hall. He's nervous himself, but not nearly in the same way. Seon or Chamseh or  _whoever_ the fuck is down there- they have answers. They would know how to get to Talon.

Adrenaline begins to course slowly through his veins. He can see a door now, threads of light shining through its outline.

_Yes._

_They would know how to get to Talon._

He marches forward, forward, forward, forward. Sujin is left behind him, in the dark, but he knows she'll follow anyway. The answers- and possibly her boss- were  _right in front of them._ There was no turning back.

That first voice they'd heard in the tunnel rings through the door, frantic and loud. Ragged, like they'd shouted their heads off for hours. Cracking, like they were under pressure.

And thick with a Korean accent.

_Why is he speakin' in English?_

"That is all, I swear, just-  _don't you dare hit me again!"_ the voice goes. "It's the lighthouse… it's the lighthouse, it-"

McCree slams through the door with his shoulder; it goes flying open and clatters against the opposite wall as he rolls on the floor- a ball of flashing red fabric- before coming up on one knee, brim of his hat pulled low, looking down the silver length of Peacekeeper at…

…at a bleeding Asian man tied to a chair that balances on three legs (the fourth one lies broken on the ground, surrounded by long wooden splinters.

The single lamp swinging slowly from the ceiling is the only movement in the room as they gape at each other.

The man looks brutish, in both his large build and heavyset face, which… McCree winces; his face has definitely seen better days- there's a big blue bruise splotching like ink across his right eye, red marks running down his chin. A bright red shirt stained with darker red blood strains to hold itself around his barrel-chested torso, with one of the silver buttons having already popped.

A dragons bares its fangs from his massive, bared arm, and McCree reaches the conclusion at the same time as Sujin.

" _SEON-NIM?"_

Sujin is moving forward, pale features twisted in surprise. McCree holds out his arm; she lurches to a reluctant stop.

Seon turns his battered head towards Sujin, and he seems to be equally surprised.

" _Sujin? Yah, neo gijibea yugi, yugi weah-"_ he spits, spittle running down his mess of a mouth. His sentence ends in a gurgle as the man glances back from Sujin and McCree to the shadowed side of the room, unreached by their one slowly swinging light source.

And there it is, that glimpse of fear in his eyes that McCree is so good at spotting nowadays.

Sujin's eyes flicker as well; she glances into the darkness. McCree looks with her. They're all thinking it, a collective thought that rings silent in the room-  _Chamseh._ The guy who took down an entire sector of a gang, apparently by himself, or with a squad of equally mysterious lackeys.

McCree lowers Peacekeeper, but keeps the tip pointing in Seon's direction.  _There's somewhere ther._

It's too dark to make Chamseh's shape, and he doesn't breathe hard enough for McCree to discern any movement in the shadows. But in the thick silence of the room, the total stillness, he can make out… a  _thrumming._ The hollow sound of intaking and exhaling oxygen, as if through a tube.

Two green circles flicker on in the dark. Sujin yelps, startled.

Then a dash of the same green between the two circles flares to life.

And then multiple little light diodes light up all the way down its form, like an airport runway at night, outlining what vaguely appears to be a body.

McCree blinks, and the tip of Peacekeeper dips towards the ground.  _Where've I see that thing before?_

All of a sudden, the lights are  _moving._

Sujin instinctively backs up and Seon cringes away, and suddenly he realizes.

McCree leans in, because for a moment he thinks that the alcohol he'd downed earlier is messing with his head. There was just no- there was  _absolutely no way-_ and he spits the words like he's full of contempt when he's actually just so,  _so_ fucking glad:

" _Genji fuckin' Shimada._   _You filthy sonofagun._ "

Genji steps into the light, a tall and imposing figure shielded entirely in shiny white armor plates and fizzling green lights.

That strange dash of emerald from earlier runs right across his mask like a visor. McCree stares, and stares, and stares, because this Genji looks so completely different from the Genji he'd once known. The Genji with gleaming red eyes, perched from under a full head of black hair, studded with wires than ran directly into his damaged spine, replaced by this sleek, entirely-Omnic-looking-thing different in every single way- except for how he's armed with the same wakizashi and katana, the same self-confident stance, from way back when.

He'd known that Genji had changed- their phone call had said as much- but… but this much? McCree's mouth opens halfway, and he wants to say something, but no sound comes out.

Genji's echoing voice, too, is unfamiliarly warm. He strides forward, armored hand extended as if in an offer of peace. "McCree! I knew you would show up."

McCree continues to stare.

_Genji never speaks first._

Sujin makes a sound like she's choking. McCree just walks up to the cyborg and they clap hands together into a solid handshake like-

-like it hadn't been over a year since McCree had least seen his murderous Japanese cyborg ninja friend-

-like McCree hadn't heard that the guy was going after his brother, to finish him off once and for all in some act of revenge. Vengeance for something he'd never clearly explained to McCree.

"Did ya do it?" he asks solemnly, studying the way Genji's new mask glistens under the lamp.

Genji understands what he's talking about immediately, and shakes his head.

"No," he replies in a lightly accented tone. "I have not seen him yet." He releases the handshake and scratches at the plating on the back of his neck- something that McCree remembers Genji had always done right after Angie removed the wires, like an obsessive tic. "I will see what I want to do when I finally meet him."

"Your choice then, bud." McCree takes a step back, appraising Genji's condition. Whoever made this new armor (he suspects Angie; she'd always had a soft spot for Genji) had done a damn good job of it.

His voice turns appreciative. "You look real fine. Like a new person."

But there's a crack in the middle of his chest plating, with fracture marks radiating from a central point on his armor. McCree's smile turns into a slight frown.  _It looks kinda like he got shot._

The cyborg straightens with something resembling solemn pride. "I  _am_ a new person. Under the tutelage of Master Zenyatta, I-"

"THAT'S CHAMSEH." Sujin surges forward, and McCree blinks, suddenly remembering why they were here as she jabs a finger right at Genji. Her voice is wildly accusatory, and fraught with confusion- "You,  _you_ destroyed the sect-"

"An acquaintance of yours?" Genji inquires. McCree shrugs with a roll of his shoulders- he still can't get over how calm Genji sounds, like he'd gotten over being killed by his own family- and squints in Sujin's direction.

'Acquaintance' was technically right, though not quite the word McCree would use for who Sujin was to him. But it was slightly less embarrassing to bring an 'acquaintance' to a reunion between two old friends than to bring a 'hostage'.

"Eh, more o' less."

Genji bows slightly to the stock-still Sujin, whose mouth is frozen open in a position of utter disbelief. Seon groans in pain somewhere in the background, along with a grumbled  _let me go, I can't, let me go._

"I am indeed Chamseh. It is," and McCree can hear the quirk of a smile in Genji's voice, "the word Sparrow in Korean, if I am not mistaken. A translation of my original moniker, nothing more."

McCree pries his gaze from the bullet(?) wound and to the flashing green slit of Genji's mask, smile back up on his face in an instant. Just another thing he'd have to ask Genji about later.

"Piece of shit. You had the same idea as me, ya bastard." McCree twirls Peacekeeper once before sticking her back into his holster, and a big, stupid smile starts to grow on his face, because it all makes sense now.  _It all makes sense._

Why Chamseh was a shadowy figure more myth than actual truth. Why nobody was sure of what he looked like. Why he had no people to back him up, but enough power for people to think that he just may have henchmen in the wings, secretly cleaning up his messes for him. Why someone completely unknown to South Korea's criminal scene was so suddenly trying to break one of its gangs down- conveniently, while Talon was cracking down on Busan's gangs, and also conveniently,  _at the same time as McCree and Hana._

"Get ahold a'Talon by goin' up the criminal ladder, right?" Laughter is coming out of McCree in bursts, like strange, childish giggling, as he thumps Genji right on the back. (Genji doesn't even budge. McCree's hand stings through its glove.) "Great minds think alike. We're damn great minds, Chamseh.  _Genji,_ you son of a  _bitch._ "

The situation probably isn't as ridiculous as McCree is making it out to be, but in the moment, this stress-relieving, burden-lifting, shoulder-lightening  _moment,_  the hilarity is all-encompassing. Sujin and Seon stare open-mouthed like a couple of drug-dealing goldfish as he thumps Genji again (which feels like punching the front of a tank) and the cigarillo drops from his mouth he's laughing so hard.

Genji's mask renders his face unreadable, but his modulated voice is so full of that same shit-eating grin that it suddenly hits McCree that Genji might've not changed as much as he'd thought.

"Great minds? Oh, McCree, I heard you didn't even finish grade school.  _I,_ on the other hand, with my  _great ninja education-_ "

McCree thwacks him on the helmet. It probably breaks his pinkie.

And something warm rises in his chest, like all the pressure of the evening and the whirl of alcohol in his head and the knowledge that he was completely alone in the middle of Talon territory and that he'd abandoned Hana,  _fucking abandoned her like a goddamn Overwatch stiff,_ was vanishing with every half-sarcastic word that dropped from Genji's mouth.

He isn't alone.

He has Genji  _goddamn_  Shimada.

_Hana's gonna be okay._

 

 

* * *

**Translations:**

Pendejo-  _Fucking idiot/Motherfucker_ in Spanish

Reyes (as in  _Gabriel Reyes_ )-  _Kings/Royals/Royalty_ in Spanish

" _Seon-nim! Sujin-I ga wasuyo!"- "Mr. Seon! Sujin came/is here!"_ in Korean

Chamseh-  _Sparrow_ in Korean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> To sum it up: School has kicked me into the dust and I've been doing nothing but studying, sports, and more sports (namely snowboarding). Snowboard season just ended so I finally had some time to sit down and finish some stuff.
> 
> This chapter has been sitting on my computer for over two months. It's a bit of a mess and slightly disjointed, but it gets the intended point and themes across, so I'm halfway okay with it. I would've liked to expand a bit further on the ending, like including the catch-up conversation between Genji and McCree so that I can end the chapter on a less confusing note, but the chapter was already getting super long, so. You guys finally have the McCree-Genji shenanigans to look forward to next chapter! (Among other things.)
> 
> When I checked this fic two days ago I was assuming that most of its followers had dropped out, and I'd have to rebuild its viewership base from the ground up. But you guys surprised me, because it actually gained over twenty followers (on , while the followers on AO3 remained the same) in the space that I was gone! I'm so grateful that you guys haven't given up on this story.
> 
> Reiterating on a promise made in a previous chapter: I will never abandon this story. I'll finish it or I'll die. Future updates will be bumpy, most likely once a month or so? But the chapters will be long and the story will definitely keep rolling!
> 
> Again, thank you so much- readers, followers, random guests who chance upon the story, everyone. Commenters are very much appreciated, as always, and I very much look forward to reading your guys's thoughts and notes on this chapter! (I read all of them. They are the fuel of this story.)
> 
> Manly love,
> 
> FillerText


	26. an easy way out

_Hello everyone, Filler Text here!_

_I got my ass kicked by daily SAT practice this summer so this chapter has been extremely slow in the making. Whenever I read your guys' reviews about how I should update again I felt a stabbing pain through my heart because you're_ goddamn right _I should update again, and you're_ goddamn right _I'm not dead yet!_

_So here it is. Chapter 27. Plot things are poised to kick off at a much quicker pace from here on out. Enjoy._

 

* * *

 

So," McCree says with an appropriate amount of gravitas. He drums his gloved fingers against the table, drawling the words.

"Hana Song."

Across from him, Genji Shimada crosses his arms across his chest. The ventilator ports on his shoulders pop out, releases puffs of humid smoke. They diffuse into the dry air, joining the acrid smoke of McCree's cigarillo.

Genji lets out a metallic "Mmm." He sits almost uncomfortably still, staring at the peeling paint decorating the rightmost wall.

It's just the two of them, a table, and two damaged chairs, sitting in the room previously used for Seon's interrogation. Sujin and Seon are gagged and restrained, locked outside in another room from which they would not be privy to McCree's conversation with his former teammate.

It gives McCree a grim sense of satisfaction to know that his gut instinct of wanting to pummel Seon wasn't unfounded- Genji had told all about the man's lax moral code and habit of collecting protection tax from vulnerable families. Seon's injuries were well deserved.

Even so, McCree had been surprised at just how brutal Genji had been towards the man, who'd been left with missing teeth and bruises abound. Interrogation had never really been Genji's thing, except for way back in the past.

And that hardly counted. Old Genji- Blackwatch Genji- he isn't  _this_  Genji. Not even close.

"So you and Hana were pretty close, I'm guessin'," McCree comments casually. "Otherwise ya wouldn't be able to recruit her into the 'Watch. What teen girl in their right mind would wanna go off with a bastard like you?"

Genji shrugs, shoulder plates scraping slightly together. "The… accommodations at her home were not pleasant. She was quite eager to leave. Ah, but…"

McCree watches the cyborg carefully lay out a strip of knitted fabric upon the table. There are no logos or markings that would signify that it is anything more than what it appears to be…

…an obnoxiously green scarf.

McCree blinks.

"Why d'ya have that."

Genji pats it with one robotic hand. "We are still good friends nonetheless. See? She gave me a gift," he says with an air of haughtiness, as if owning the world's ugliest scarf is something to be proud of. McCree is tempted to rub his eyes as he stares at the thing, which is nearly fluorescent in its bright coloring.

"But," the cowboy continues as he scratches at his hair. " _Why would Hana give ya that._ It's absolutely hideous. My damn eyes are burning _._ "

"I do not understand your question, McCree." Genji tilts his head. The neon green visor flashes, and for a moment McCree imagines he can almost see the smirk behind that shiny silver mask. "Gift exchanges are customary among friends. I imagine Hana-chan did not consider you a friend, if you received no gifts of your own?"

"Shut up, Roboy," McCree grumbles while Genji silently guffaws. "She probably hates you, if she gets ya somethin' all neon-colored like that thing. Where in hell would you even wear this? To a clown's funeral?"

Genji sits up straight, appearing to deeply ponder this question.

"I once wore it while pretending to be a crab*," he says seriously. "And then I would yell at randomly chosen unfortunate souls 'SAKE'! all up and down the dock. We- Hana and I- scared many unfortunate souls."

That raises more questions than it does answers, so instead of asking, McCree takes another drag. He's fully aware that all the cigarillos in the world wouldn't be able to help him deal with this shit.

But it still feels  _good,_ so good, to have Genji here. They went way back, the cowboy and the ninja cyborg, two criminals who were villains even among Blackwatch. McCree had killed too many of Blackwatch's own in his Deadlock days to be trusted, and Genji Shimada was such an isolationist that Blackwatch was convinced he was mute for a good half year. Never spoke to anyone, save Angie and the commander.

He'd confided in McCree later on that he hated the sound of his own voice. Didn't feel like his own, he'd said. It was some artificial rendition of what he'd sounded like in the past, made just humanlike enough to fall into the uncanny valley.

Besides, Genji wasn't inclined to make friends with people he despised. The way everyone pretended that Blackwatch didn't exist, how Gabriel Reyes and McCree and Moira and the rest were shunted aside into the shadow of 'The Greater Good'; all contributing factors to Genji's general porcupine-y nature.  _Everything lacks authenticity._

McCree got that. Everything did feel fake- Overwatch especially, with their  _Anyone can be a hero!_ sort of message, forcibly recruiting criminals into their ranks to play at Justice League. (Children, too. Morrison and Gabe had both been kids in the military before being subjected to the SEP, and now Hana…)

And maybe that helped bring the two together. A mistrust for the system. Sure, the pair's ideas of justice had deviated somewhat out in the field- McCree was the running-back-into-burning-buildings-to-save-the-kitten sort of guy, while Genji would've stabbed the kitten on his way out to prematurely end its suffering- but they'd maintained a tenuous friendship despite all that. More than just a casual friendship, even.

McCree, being two years Genji's senior, had privately considered himself a surrogate older brother. Someone to make up for the assholery of Genji's real brother. What happened that night Genji was flown into Overwatch with his limbs barely attached had never been made entirely clear, but Genji's hatred towards his brother had been made exceedingly so. McCree, a Deadlock whelp with no parents to speak of, was missing a family too.

They just… clicked, in that strange way. Circumstance dictated it so.

That's what was missing, McCree realizes suddenly. This is why he'd been feeling empty for the past year. The family element- the feeling that he belongedsomewhere, that someone wanted him to  _stay-_ that feeling he'd cherished so much had been gone.

"I missed you," he finds himself saying hoarsely. He twitches his damaged arm, hiding the brief wave of pain that wrinkles his brow. "Son of a doggone bitch, I missed you. I'm glad you got, uh."

He looks Genji, all white metal and glowing green lights, up and down.

"…better, pal, really."

Genji laughs. His voice becomes all low and silvery when he does that, wavering back and forth between the thresholds of a real voice and a synthetic one.

"What's this? Is the infamous カウボーイ Jesse McCree becoming  _sentimental_?"

"I would punch you, but I wanna keep my remaining fingers unbroken," grumbles McCree while Genji chuckles.

They settle into a comfortable silence, the cowboy tapping the ashes off his cigarillo, the cyborg patting his hand on the obnoxious scarf. McCree smiles to himself. He wants it to stay this way, with everything nice and warm and friendly. He wants to sit here and bask in the metaphorical sun forever.

But he has a duty. An unpaid debt. They'd skirted around the subject long enough, and he can feel it about to surface right about…  _now._

He cracks his eyes open to see that Genji has stopped patting the scarf.

"Why isn't Hana with us?"

The question hangs threateningly in the air. McCree exhales a mouthful of smoke and it curls silver into the light, pressing against the dark ceiling.

They watch it fade into nothing together. In the silence, a plan already burns in their minds to get Hana Song back home.

 

* * *

_(TW: Those with mental health issues may want to skip this half of the chapter._

_Recommended music for this next portion: 'Easy Way out' by Low Roar- YouTube url + /watch?v=M_lyQ-OCIYs)_

* * *

 

Hana wishes she knew what time it is.

The lights are still on. The lights are  _always_ on. Day or night, dusk or dawn, everything remains the same- the concrete walls, the floor, the flickering ceiling, the steady drip-drip-drip of water in the corner of her cell. Purple- Sombra- she hasn't come back since they'd last spoken, and Hana is inclined to believe that Talon really will starve her into obedience.

What they don't know, she decides grimly, is that Hana would rather keel over dead than go with the organization that has ruined her.

She swallows hard, trying to wet her sandpaper-dry throat.

There is no clock. It could've been hours since Hana had been captured. Days, even. The only thing that helps Hana keep track of passed time is the newfound growling in her stomach, a hunger hardly abated by the dripping water in the corner of her cell. Food at Amin's felt like ages ago.

_Amin._

Her hands are a ghostly white, whether from poor blood circulation or coldness, anyone's guess was as good as hers. Hana holds them up to her face, and she imagines slick redness coating the slender fingers. It drips from her hands to the beat of the dripping water,  _drip, drip, drip,_ never stopping.

_Murderer!_

Somewhere deep in Hana's heart lives a vague hope that this is all a fever dream, the kind that you forget as soon as you wake up. To where in the past would she jump back if she  _could_ just 'wake up'? Maybe she'd wake up to Genji shaking her shoulder, cheekily shoving a mirror in her face that shows the mustache he'd drawn on her in the night. Maybe she'd wake up to the smell of burnt rubber, only for Amin to rush into her room with metallic apologies concerning some freshly made/burned food. Tara would groan and roll her eyes and complain loudly, but eat every single bite on her plate.

 _No sense in putting it to waste,_ she'd grumble.  _Hana, if you're not eating that, I'll have it._

Hana huddles herself into the corner, knees to her chest. She pinches the back of her hand until it draws blood.

A prick of pain. Hana checks the red blossoming out over her skin and sighs.

… _Not a dream._

"The American is still out there," DVA reminds.

She sits down across from Hana, idly twirling a lock of silky hair round and round one rosy finger. Unlike Hana, DVA looks as sprightly as ever, as if she'd stepped right off a  _Home Living_ magazine cover. "Keep that chin up."

"I told McCree to get lost," Hana snaps sharply. She glares at DVA, watery dark eyes staring right into bright brown ones. "He's  _gone._ I don't-"

"It's like you don't  _want_ to hope." DVA stands, stretching out long, shapely legs beneath her. There's a smirk on those rosebud lips, a smirk in the way she speaks, like Hana is a child being told off- she resents that.

"You're content to stew in your misery like a pathetic child. See, that's the difference between you and me. What if McCree comes back, hm? What then? Will you just sit there and cry, as you always do?"

Something in Hana's heart breaks. She doesn't  _want_ McCree to come back. It doesn't matter how great he is with his gun; he's just one man versus Sombra, Reaper, the entire Talon base… if McCree, too, dies because of her, it's.

It's over.

( _it was over a long time ago._ )

The door clangs open. Hana doesn't even raise her head to see who it is. Probably Reaper, here to beat the living shit out of her. He was going to yell at her,

_Submit to Talon-_

_-pilot the MEKA-_

_-join Overwatch-_

_-go to Seoul-_

_-drop out of school-_

_-give me your money-_

_-stream Starcraft for us-_

_-stay with me-_

-and  _again and again and again-_

Is there no one in the world that sees Hana as more than a  _weapon?_ More than a plaything, a source of entertainment? What is she to the people around her?

Who, in this cold universe, sees Hana Song as a human being?

Oh, right. Hana traces the smooth stone of the rabbit charm, cold and pink against her skin. It spins in a slow circle as it dangles from the bracelet, light glinting off polished corners in all directions.

She'd gotten rid of those people were own two hands. Spread their pretty blue lights all over the floor, painting the walls with sticky black oil-

" _Que tal, ¿chica?_ I know there aren't any games or computers and things in that cell, so it must be kind-a boring, eh?"

Sombra sits herself right down against the wall, grinning at Hana with white, white teeth. Her voice feels gratingly loud, probably because everything has been near silent for such a long time. "You never see how much someone means to people until they gone. The Internet's blowing up about you. Reddit especially. You ever check the r/DVA subreddit?"

Hana isn't interested in Sombra's mind games or misplaced recruitment tactics, so instead of listening she stares blankly at the floor. There's a spider scuttling across the ground, slowly zig-zagging across the cell. She watches it pause at her numb feet to stare inquisitively up at her, the size of her thumb and starkly black against the gray floor.

Hana used to be afraid of spiders.

"I think Reaps is impressed, though he'd never say it,  _ha!_ Still a kid, and yet here you are." Sombra tilts her head, her purple-tinged hair flopping over to the other side. "Still holdin' out, mm. After seventeen hours."

Seventeen hours. Hana files that tidbit of information away for later.

The spider begins to crawl steadily towards the edge of the cell. Her eyes are glued to its progress- unlike her, the spider is small enough to fit between the bars. In a few seconds, it would cross the threshold and be scuttling its way to freedom.

Sombra chatters on like a particularly evil parrot. Brightly colored and devious at the same time.

"We don't usually visit Korea, so there aren't any cleaners set up.  _Qué aburrido, ¿verdad?_   _Me,_ doing cleanup. What a joke. And on top of  _that_ unholy mess, they want me to convince  _you-_

There's sudden a blur of motion; Hana barely has time to react as Sombra pulls out something-  _a gun-_ from her lapels and  _RATATA_ blares loudly in her ears _;_ Hana flinches and she looks sharply down, half-expecting to be riddled with bullets. (At this point, she honestly would not mind.)

The spider is now a smoking hole in the ground. Sombra woman waves her gun, a trail of hazy white smoke tracing its path through the air. Her eyes flash violet in the low light, the smile still curled on her face.

"-to listen when Talon speaks. Look, _chica,_ don't you want to live? Eh?"

_Do I?_

Hana's voice is a cracking, squeaky mess, and it slithers from between her dry lips like a dying snake.

"…Why do you care?"

Sombra pouts, her long lashes batting in an uncanny imitation of Hana's mother.

"I'm not  _heartless,_ I'm  _bored._ Until you fix your attitude and come with us," and she throws her hands into the air in a show of exasperation, "we can't move on. So either you submit now or submit later,  _after_ they pump you full of drugs and give you the Amélie Lacroix treatment.  _Vamos_. Work with me here. They aren't giving me anything interesting to do and I'm  _dying_."

Hana blinks at the smoking grave of that little spider. Here she is, freezing, hungry, and so stressed that her stomach feels like it's going to flip inside out, and Sombra is complaining about someone named Amélie and being  _bored._

Unlike the other Talon operatives Hana has seen before, Sombra is an open book, allowing herself (or some falsified version of herself) to be read by all who see her. This woman is proud. Spiteful. Arrogant. She doesn't consider herself a part of Talon, even belittling the terrorist organization, and holds enough power to be flippant towards the Reaper without getting her head blown off. She talks like a teenager, acts like a fool, and pulls it all off in the way only an experienced criminal could.

And she is  _bored._

Past the irritation Hana holds towards Sombra- past the anger, the pain, the sorrow that this  _fucking bitch had played a part in Amin's death-_ she sees that there is an opportunity to be had here. A _shot in the dark_ , as McCree and his American accent would call it, but an opportunity nonetheless.

She takes the chance.

"If you're bored, do you-" Hana coughs, clearing her muddled throat.

"Ahem. Do you want to do something interesting?"

This catches Sombra's attention. She rolls her head from side to side, eyeing Hana with catlike purple irises. No doubt she wonders if dehydration is addling Hana's head.

"Not sure what you can offer me that I'd like, unless it's you following Talon orders." Those irises narrow. "Does it?"

Hana sits up straight. This is important. This is a chance. In her head she apologizes to Genji and Ana and Tracer over and over and over again, because she'd failed each and every one of the people who'd believed in her.

"No," she croaks. "No, but I promise it will be fun. It will be interesting, like you wanted."

Sombra taps the heel of her palm against the ground, head tilted in consideration. Hana prays to some forsaken God in the heavens that just this once, just this one time, he would be merciful on her and her ugly legacy. That he would make Sombra consider Hana's offer seriously. That Hana was right in assuming that what Sombra wanted was not success for Talon, but entertainment for herself, and that whatever Hana proposed would be taken seriously if it was fun for the woman, no matter how ridiculous the proposal may be.

And for the first time in Hana's short life, God answers.

Sombra purses her purple lips. There is a gleam in her eyes, one that Hana hasn't ever seen before.

"I'm listening."

_Amen._

"How about we play a game." Hana's gaze flickers up to the woman.

"You give me a gun. A gun with bullets- full clip and all. And then I'll try to escape with just that, in just ten minutes."

There is silence. Sombra is obviously expecting more- some kind of caveat, some special rule that will give Hana an advantage. But there is none.

Her insides feel hollow. Hana licks her chapped lips.

"That's it," she informs Sombra after a long few seconds.

Sombra's dark eyebrows nearly escape her forehead in her incredulity. "Eh? You don't even want the cell door opened? You can't just shoot the lock out like you do in the movies,  _chica._  Life isn't," and she chuckles a little, "a video game."

"I can escape this cell without your help if you just provide the gun." Hana smiles a little, sits up a little straighter. "Have you forgotten who I am? I'm  _DVA._  You think Overwatch-  _cough-_ O-Overwatch would pick someone up if they don't have any special skills? As soon as I'm out of here, you're dead. Just give me the gun, and-"

" _Hana,_ " DVA says quietly. "What are you doing?"

Hana ignores her.

"You can't seriously think a gun will help you out of here," Sombra sneers. Her arms cross. "There's something else, eh? Well, it doesn't matter. You're more foolish than I thought, if you think you can escape. There is no way out."

Hana shrugs, playing it off nonchalantly.

"Oh, I dunno. I thought you wanted some fun, that's all."

"Your idea of fun is  _muy interesante_."

"Isn't it? I've always thought it was one of my better points."

"It's a shame that your other  _skills_  aren't up to par as well." Sombra's voice is dry as acid, dry enough to sting and hurt. "Otherwise  _Señora_  Robota would still be alive, ah?"

Hana's nails bite sharply into her palms. Her breath shudders; all of a sudden it's the dead blue light pegged onto Amin's head that is shining above her, not the hanging ceiling lamp.

_Not now. Focus! I can't-_

"Disappointed?" DVA smirks at Sombra, combing out her bedraggled hair in an attempt to fix her worn appearance, fingers catching on every knot and tangle. "That's a mutual feeling, 'cos I never thought you'd be such a coward."

The smirk returns to Sombra's face, and instead of appearing antagonized, the woman appears more amused _,_ as if Hana's sudden defiance is pleasing to her. "A coward. Me. I didn't refuse your bet yet,  _chica._ "

Invisible butterflies are set loose in Hana's chest when Sombra unholsters her gun. It's an Uzi, recognizable to Hana only for its use in video games, with certain segments of it painted blueberry purple in a personal touch.

_Thisismychancethisismychancethisismychancethisismychance-_

Sombra tosses it into the air, catching the twirling gun by its muzzle and sticking it through the bars of the cell with flourish. Hana takes it with both hands, running her fingers over the metal. It's warmed slightly by Sombra's residual body heat and from its usage in executing the spider. A thrill runs down Hana's spine; it nearly feels like a living thing.

"Well. There's your gun," says Sombra with amusement. She flips her locks of purple hair the other way and narrows her eyes, clearly anticipating something exciting to happen. "It has bullets, and it works- you saw what I did to that spider, eh? Consider that the performance test."

Hana wraps her fingers around the handle. Unlike with the Talon gun, she can reach all the way around- apparently her petite hand was around the same size as Sombra's. "When do I start?"

A nonchalant shrug. "Anytime. Go ahead."

Hana exhales for the last time, long and slow.

It wasn't the most glorious ending, nor was it placed in the most appropriate setting. Hana would've chosen a place with a view of the sky, big and dark and filled to the brim with stars, like that night she and Genji had sat down in the sun-warmed sand outside the night market so long ago. She would've wanted to be lying comfortably on her back, staring up at the world instead of directly ahead through jail cell bars.

But only heroes got storybook endings, and Hana was anything but one. She going to exit the stage selfishly. Full of anger, self-pity, and misery, with thoughts about nobody's faults but her own clouding her filthy, cracking mind.

Hana pressed the gun to her own temple.

Sombra's eyes met hers. For a moment, just one paltry instant, there was something besides indifference reflected in those deep violet depths, and the woman extended her hand with sudden lightning strike of realization.

"You-"

_I win, Talon._

Hana pulled the trigger.

 

* * *

 

_Translations:_

_Que tal, ¿chica?- What's up, girl?_

_Qué aburrido, ¿verdad?- How boring, right?_

_Vamos- Let's go_

_Muy interesante- Very interesting_

_A/N_

_I will enjoy reading your reviews on this chapter. Thank you for following the Life of Hana Song.  
-Filler Text_


End file.
